


Mirage

by trillingstar



Category: Oz (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Big Bang Challenge, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-13
Updated: 2009-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:25:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillingstar/pseuds/trillingstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tells the story: some asshole alcoholic had one too many at the company picnic and mowed down a little girl as she was riding her bike. Maybe she died instantly, but maybe not. The asshole's some kind of crooked lawyer, old money, and he works out a good ol' boys deal. Now this guy's daughter is in the ground while her murderer walks free.</p><p>Keller says, "Maybe you don't want the guy dead. Maybe you want him to suffer."</p><p>"That's exactly what I want," he replies.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirage

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first annual [OZ Big Bang](http://unitb.slashcity.net/bigbang/mirage.html), because OZ still makes my heart pound.
> 
> [Art by Dressedindeath](http://unitb.slashcity.net/bigbang/mirage_art.html).
> 
> [Art by Kaynyne](http://unitb.slashcity.net/bigbang/mirage_art2.html).
> 
> Thank you to EVERYONE who helped me craft this monster of a tale, specifically my fabulous betas blackchaps &amp; ozsaur and sparkly cheerleaders dustandroses &amp; beechercreature. Pie!love for my co-mods marythefan &amp; ozsaur. PIEEEEE.  
> 

  
Toby has never been able to fully explain his love for alcohol. He's heard a lot of people stand up at meetings and label it their mistress, their whore, a comfort and cure. Toby had a wife. He had a mistress who asked for enough from him that she may have been a whore. Alcohol was a balm, but it didn't soothe him. It didn't boost his confidence in the courtroom, the boardroom or the bedroom, yet he was controlled by it for years.

When Toby drinks, he loses time. He'll be at the bar, martini in hand, and then he blinks and he's home in bed, his car parked in the driveway. Blackouts aren't the exception.

Sometimes, he gets together with Gen, the foundation of which is falling into bed together. Sex was never their issue; they broke up because of the drinking. Mostly. She'll gladly admit that her insecurities fueled their major fights, but he knows that alcohol played a part. Of course it did. Toby took advantage of it, of the buzz, that temporary excitement of an endorphin-fueled escapade, and turned it back on her.

Toby's vices? Alcohol, absolutely. His occasional interest in men. He never thought of it as a vice, but Gen did, because he looked. A lot. He was faithful, though – he never cheated on her with a man. It made Gen uncomfortable, and Toby knew it. They'd go out to dinner and his eyes would linger much too long on a tight, round ass or a handsome face. She'd squirm in her seat, face flushed with embarrassment. For a while, Toby thought she was red with arousal, and it stung when it became clear that she wasn't interested. Toby rubbed her nose in it, just to watch her eyes light up with fury. He liked to push her. He liked teasing them, too – "Sorry, I'm here with my wife" – hinting that he kept his options open.

He doesn't blame her for leaving.

And she did, eventually, tired of the covetous looks and the late nights that were spent at bars, not at the office or at home with her. Toby dated his mistress for a few months before realizing that it wasn't quite as much fun when he wasn't half-heartedly covering their affair. He curbed the drinking for a while, attempting to prove that he could quit whenever he wanted, and continued seeing whoever he damned well pleased.

His idea of cutting back led to a couple of DUIs, and thankfully his dad considered drinking to be a release valve from the pressures of work and divorce. Toby knew exactly who to call when he was picked up – once going fifty through a school zone, and wasn't that a bitch to get out of – but Harrison Beecher was a name that commanded respect in police precincts. Toby took full advantage. Other relationships started out with promise, then soon fizzled and went stale, and eventually Toby fell into the routine of being alone and liking it. He drank less when he was at home and stopped paying for dates that led nowhere. He thought about getting a dog, then dismissed the idea that he could be that reliable, and most recently had discovered a real aptitude for chess.

Over a year later, Gen called him, and Toby loved hearing her voice. They met for dinner at Gen's favorite restaurant and talked animatedly over thick venison steaks. Toby pretended not to notice the tiny raise of her brows and the look of disbelief she slid his way when he kept his alcohol intake to half a bottle of house red. It felt like the beginning of their relationship, and it was clear to Toby how much he'd missed her. They kissed awkwardly by the door of Gen's new apartment, a large loft that Toby had paid for through the divorce settlement, and she invited him in. The sex was fantastic, even though she cried softly at the end, and Toby was made uncomfortable by it. He was more than willing to chalk it up to an emotional reunion. Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary, except that he wasn't drunk or sleeping on the couch.

They saw each other for several weeks after that, whenever either needed a shoulder or a pick-me-up, and Toby started to fall in love with her again.

~

The bedroom is awash with sunlight, bright patches falling on the covers pushed onto the floor, and one warm shaft tickles Toby's kneecap. With great effort, he cracks open one eyelid, squinting against the dazzling summer light. He's staring at the back of someone's dark head, and for one tilting moment, he feels off-balance and shy. The woman next to him stretches and sighs, and the noise causes it all to rush back: picking Gen up at the airport after her week-long seminar in the city, licking champagne off her breasts in the back of the limo, only making it to the bedroom hours later, and passing out from sheer exhaustion after one last vigorous bout of passionate sex. Toby sighs happily as he drifts back to sleep.

There's still daylight showing when Toby rouses again, but the light is muted, and he realizes that the curtains are drawn. Gen's gone, and there's a glass of water on the nightstand, droplets of condensation formed at the base. He's staring at it, willing the glass into his hand by sheer mental force, when the door opens and Gen breezes in, a breakfast tray balanced precariously on a stack of newspapers.

"Lazy ass," she says affectionately. "Wake up!" She sets the tray on the dresser, flings the paper to the footboard, and then jumps onto the bed.

Toby musters a wan smile in the face of her cheer, but drags himself up, leaning against the headboard. He catches her around the waist, pulling her close. Pushing her fingers through his hair, Gen leans in for a kiss, tasting like oranges and melon.

Later, sated on morning sex, Gen fetches the tray of croissants and cocoa from the top of the bureau. Toby keeps one eye on her naked form as he pulls the business section and the funny pages out from the stack of Sunday papers. Propped up on thick cotton pillows, they eat, licking raspberry jam from their fingers, drinking hot chocolate from the thermos and reading in companionable silence.

Toby breaks it. "I'm glad you came," he says.

Gen smiles at him. "Wouldn't miss it."

"I know," he replies. He's lucky to have her.

"Oh, the poor thing," Gen murmurs.

Toby looks up from a fascinating article about the application of Keynesian economics to federal budget analysis. "What is it?"

"This polar bear," Gen says. Unfolding the paper and bending it at the crease, she moves closer and leans against Toby. "Its mother rejected him at birth." She sniffles.

Toby wraps an arm around Gen's shoulders and murmurs comforting words. He's unprepared for the sharp jab of her fingers under his ribs, and he sits up in surprise. "What?"

"This baby bear is probably going to die, and you're pretending to give a shit!" Genevieve's voice raises in volume and her eyes fill with tears.

Toby's mouth opens. "What?" he asks again.

"You only care about yourself, you asshole. You haven't changed at all!" She puts her head in her hands and her shoulders shake.

Toby touches her arm lightly. "Vee," he says mildly, using an old nickname, "What's wrong, really?"

Her body unfolds immediately and she clings to his side. He can feel the wetness on her cheeks on his skin, and he pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her. "Talk to me."

Gen shakes her head stubbornly. "I'm fine. I'm fine." She takes a deep breath. "Sorry?"

"You can talk to me about anything. Okay?" Toby kisses her gently on the lips.

"I know," she says quietly. "It was… Long week." She hugs Toby. "You give good hugs." She smiles.

~

He's been working eighty-hour weeks for the last month, so Toby takes the day off on Friday, relishing the thought of a relaxing afternoon spent lounging in the hammock, sipping a gin and tonic. In the morning, he jogs for an hour on the track and then runs a few errands. Arriving home, he parks in the driveway, noting with satisfaction the four large lawn bags set out by the trashcans. The air smells like freshly mown grass, and the hedges are neatly trimmed. He's pleased with the new landscaping service - their employees don't accuse him of sexual harassment when he offers them a cold drink during their labor – but he wishes they'd send someone who has a better eye for colors, because the pinks by the mailbox are garish.

He collects the mail from the box, flipping past a trade magazine and the usual hodgepodge of grocery circulars, bills and an invitation to attend a seminar on how to achieve his dreams. He chuckles. An envelope flutters down to the ground and when he scoops it up, he notices it has Gen's return address on the left-hand corner. He's curious, but whatever it is can wait until he's changed clothes and poured himself a drink. It is nearly lunchtime.

It feels wonderful to lie in the hammock with the early afternoon sun warm on his face. The gentle sway of the hammock as it catches a breeze invites Toby to close his eyes and breathe deeply. He sips at his second gin and tonic – well, third, if he counts the two fingers of gin he gulped while making it – and allows himself to drift, relaxing and thinking of nothing at all, until the ice in his glass melts and he returns to the kitchen for a fresh drink.

He spots the envelope from Gen on the table – Cartier, Gen's preferred stationery, and rips it open. Two sheets of thick, cream-colored paper are nestled inside, and Toby unfolds them and begins to read.

Everything seems to go at two speeds after that: either it's a blur of motion, moving too quickly to comprehend, or it's all in slow-motion, dragging, stretching out for far too long.

_Sometimes I wonder if I even loved you at all._

He's on the floor in the kitchen, knees pulled to his chest, mouth hanging open in surprise.

_I must have, because I let you walk all over me, over my feelings and my needs, over what was important to me, and I didn't speak up or tell you that I was wasting away._

He's in the car, backing out of the driveway, ignoring the indignant shouts of people on the sidewalk, not even hearing the blares of horns as other cars swerve to get out of his way.

_Wasn't I enough for you? Why did you always have to make a scene? I know you think I'm being silly, insecure Gen, whining about whatever foolish thought crosses her mind. But I don't think I'm to blame, Toby. I think you are._

Flooring it through yellow lights, running stop signs, creeping up on seventy miles an hour through a construction zone, the workers flashing past. Toby's right foot is made of lead and he's not stopping for anyone.

_You put my dreams on hold so you could make partner. You picked out our house, our cars, our vacations. You picked out my goddamned wedding dress, for Christ's sake._

He arrives at her building, and there's a cop car at the curb, but that could be anything, for anyone. Racing up the stairs, he stops short at the sight of yellow crime tape stretched across Gen's door, and then he's sticking his key into the lock anyway and the door swings open.

_And I let you. I let you choose my life, like I was some Stepford robot wife. And I thought I'd gotten over it, all of it, all of the bullshit that the divorce highlighted, how everything about our marriage was bad, and wrong. But seeing you over these past months..._

He thinks he yells out, but he's not sure, because there are other people there, and they're all sitting in Gen's living room like they goddamn well live there, and two of them rise up and approach him as though he's a wild animal and he's fighting them, shouting her name.

_ I'm not going to let you decide this for me._

~

Ostensibly, Keller came to town for a wedding. He'd known the bride since they were on again, off again a couple of years ago, so when he missed the ceremony, he knew exactly how he'd make it up to her. If the new hubby wasn't cool with it, he was going to have a rough time making a life with the high-maintenance nympho he'd just married- but that wasn't Keller's problem.

He hitched a ride with a good-looking woman in her fifties. She wasn't the willowy blonde who gave him the once-over as she walked past him at the rest stop, and so what if she was a few years older than him. He was good with that. But she never gave him the green light, and he pretended to fall asleep so he could think about the con that Ronnie outlined. Usually when Keller worked, he went for the big money grifts, but right then he needed a place to stay, wheels and cash, so he was feeling open-minded.

A few months later, he's living in a boarding house on the east side of the city. Ronnie offered him the couch in an unfinished basement, but Keller needs his own space, and he's done enough squatting in basements. There's a shiny new chopper parked in the back, he has a few thousand in his pocket, and he's ready to move on. Gina's already sick of being married and her clinginess reminds him of why they stopped fucking around the first four times. Vegas sounds good, but he needs capital. What he needs is some kind of easy scheme, something low-key, maybe even something fun.

~

"Mr. Beecher?" A tall, lanky man wearing square-framed glasses hovers in the doorway, a detective's badge displayed on a chain around his neck.

Toby looks up groggily. "Yeah?" His voice is hoarse. He feels as if he's gone ten rounds against a sandstorm in a wind tunnel, his futile efforts only resulting in frustration and pain.

"Detective Semple, Mr. Beecher. I need to ask you a few questions." At Toby's nod, the man perches on the edge of the sofa opposite him, flips open a pad of paper, and holds the pen poised to write. "When was the last time you saw your wife?"

"Ex-wife," Toby corrects him reflexively. "About two weeks ago."

"And how did she seem then? That is, what was her state of mind?"

Toby thinks. Limo, flowers, dinner, sex. Breakfast in bed, sitting in a spill of sunshine. Her brilliant smile. His chest tightens and the room spins. He tries to stand up, crouches, and sits back down. He doesn't know where to put his hands, and Christ, Gen.

"Mr. Beecher?" The cop again, staring at him intently, needing an answer for something. What was it? Oh.

"Uh, she seemed fine." And ain't that a kick in the balls; she'd seemed more than fine, laughing, peaceful, happy. Okay, she'd cried a little lately, but people cry. It's not abnormal.

There are more questions, and Detective Semple even hints that he shouldn't take any trips out of town over the next couple of weeks, but Toby barely hears him while answering as best he can, feeling detached from all of it. The detective excuses himself to the hallway to take a phone call. Toby's sitting on what used to be the couch in their old house, and he grabs up one of the throw pillows, clutching it tight to his face, and inhales deeply.

Semple ignores the fresh tear tracks on Toby's cheeks when he comes back to the living room, and resumes their conversation.

"You said it'd been two weeks since you saw your ex-wife?" He adjusts his glasses.

"Yeah, about that long. Uh, we had dinner, she spent the night. I called a car for her the following afternoon." Toby remembers Gen's protests, how she suggested she'd take the bus, and how he'd insisted on his way instead.

Semple's forehead wrinkles in thought. "And was that usual? You had an amicable divorce?"

Toby nods. "Perhaps not amicable, but not nasty. We'd started talking again lately. Sometimes she'd call after a bad day..." he trails off.

"Yes?" The detective prompted.

"She called me a couple of days ago," Toby whispers. "I forgot because I didn't actually talk to her, but she left a message on the machine." He bends over, head in his hands. "What did she say?"

Detective Semple waits patiently, but Toby shakes his head in defeat.

"I don't remember exactly. It was something about how she'd been doing a lot of thinking lately, or that she'd come to some decision." He looks up, guilt etched across his face. "I thought she meant about the store, something at work."

Jesus, the pain, his guts are twisting and burning inside his body.

"She, she said that she'd had a good day; she'd taken care of some things that had been on her mind, and she'd made a decision. That she hoped I had a nice day. She hoped that I- nice. Day." Toby groans. "Oh, fuck me." He might throw up.

He starts to reach into his pocket to bring out the letter, and then changes his mind. That was something from Gen to him, it's his to deal with, and no one else needs to know about it.

There is a bar after that, or maybe four, and he drinks until he's cut off at each one and thrown out at the last. He doesn't remember crying, but the front of his shirt is wet and his eyes ache, hot and gritty. His throat's raw as if he's been sobbing for hours. He stops at a liquor store after the last dive, and then points the car towards home and steps on the gas. His mouth's so goddamned dry, and he licks his lips, chewing on his bottom lip and his eyes drift shut for just a second, swear to God, and when he blinks he's in a strange part of town. He doesn't know which street he's turned on, and he squints against the glare of the setting sun. He makes out a blurry sign, could have been STOP, and responds by tromping down on the accelerator instead of the brakes. A blob of movement in the road catches his eye; overcompensating, he jerks the wheel to the left and hits the shape.

He pitches forward, smacking his head into the steering wheel and his air bag deploys, shoving his chest and torso back against the seat. Several minutes later, Toby shakes his head and groans. He pushes at the air bag and wrestles with the door handle. He has to get out, but the door won't budge. Toby slumps down, his arms aching. He looks up at the windshield. There's something dark covering half of it, and he sits up, squinting at what looks like braided pieces of cloth down by the windshield wipers. He looks again, closer, and sees that the cloth is connected to a larger lump. He must have really whacked into something, and the accident rolls through his mind in slow-motion. He's swerving, his vision blurry, and there's a girl with pigtails blinking at him through the glass. He sees a yellow bicycle and hears a squishy thump that he comes to associate with breaking. Turning toward the passenger seat, Toby throws up. The regurgitated alcohol stings his throat and tastes like bile.

He's in a daze. Sitting in the back of a police car, he stares at his hands. They're dirty, but the cops won't let him wash them. An ambulance comes and goes, and the ride to the hospital is deathly silent, interrupted only by the crackling police radio. Toby listens as the cop who rode shotgun on the way tells the emergency room doctor why they've cuffed one of his wrists to the railing of the hospital bed, and she flinches. The other one reads Toby his rights, and then tries to get him to talk. As inebriated as Toby is, his sense of self-preservation is still intact, and he keeps his mouth shut.

He can't stop the tears, though, and his cheeks are wet, soaked twice in under two days. He nears hysteria, glancing at the heavy guns on the police officers' belts every time he wants to wail. He's kept under observation for two days, and every moment is agony. The third time that his father shows up, he makes the guard posted outside of Toby's room remove the handcuffs by showing him the bond slip. Then he bundles Toby out of the hospital and takes him home to his mother.

~

Keller meets the guy in a dive. The guy's middle-aged, soft but not pudgy, with frown lines stretching his face down, like a basset hound. Suburban. And way out of his depth. Guy has no business being there, and Keller watches, amused, as all of the hardcore bikers dismiss the guy with a single look.

But the guy looks determined, and Chris wants to know why, so he watches until the look of determination sharpens into one of desperation. He drinks his beer, scratches at the label and unpeels it from the corner, and then leans back in his chair, crossing his feet at the ankles; when the guy finds him, Chris looks up with unaffected nonchalance. The guy's holding two beers and he offers one to Chris, and for a second, Keller thinks he pegged the guy wrong and he's about to propose some hanky-panky in the john.

Then he sits down and says, clear as day, "I want this guy dead."

He tells the story: some asshole alcoholic had one too many at the company picnic and mowed down a little girl as she was riding her bike. Maybe she died instantly, but maybe not. The asshole's some kind of crooked lawyer, old money, and he works out a good ol' boys deal. Now this guy's daughter is in the ground while her murderer walks free.

Keller says, "Maybe you don't want the guy dead. Maybe you want him to suffer."

"That's exactly what I want," the guy says. "You'd break his arms, his legs, rough him up?"

Chris's eyebrows rise. "Whoa, buddy, ease up. I didn't say anything like that." He fiddles with the shredded label, and then lowers his voice. "Anyway, that shit heals. You wanna make someone suffer, you gotta break them, not their bones."

So he won't be winning any humanitarian awards; Keller wants to know what this guy might do with the right encouragement.

The guy, Lou, gets this look on his face like the secret to bringing his kid back to life was just revealed. He wants to meet Keller at the bar the next night, like they're in cahoots. Keller shakes his head, spearing Lou with a look that's really an invitation to go fuck himself. Lou slaps two hundred dollars onto the table. Chris finishes his beer in leisurely sips, ignoring the Benjamins and the guy. When he stands, it's with one hand flat on the money, and then he leans down close to Lou's ear and tells him that two bills is fuckin' insulting.

He leaves with the money crumpled in his fist.

~

The charges were driving while intoxicated and vehicular manslaughter. Toby was sure he was fucked. The crime meted harsh punishment, and he knows that he should have gone to jail. It's what he deserved.

A hot rush of pure relief coursed through his body when Judge Lima handed down the sentence, and Toby shook his lawyer's hand gratefully. Next he shook his dad's hand, and then he pretended not to notice the Rockwells sitting in the gallery, sobbing. There wasn't anything he could say that would make what he'd done all right, and he didn't try. Nothing would ever be enough. Sometimes Toby thinks that maybe he should have, because as thankful as he was to be returning home, he knew that justice failed.

Now, when he's at a dinner party where they are serving tonic and lime, sparkling wine and soda, his hearing becomes sharp as a bat's. Through the clamor of voices, the glassy tink of silverware on china, through the swinging double doors to the kitchen, he swears he hears the frenzied hostess making herself a drink: the soft fizz of tonic, the glug of vodka, the plip of an olive sliding into the booze, her sigh of contentment when she takes a sip.

He wants to push back his chair, napkin dropping to the floor, and charge into the kitchen, ripping the glass from her hand, downing it all in one swallow and begging for another.

But Toby doesn't drink anymore.

Maybe he liked the ritual. Maybe it was the way that the bottle fit in his hand like it was destined to be there. Maybe he was pretending so hard that losing time was welcome. Maybe he liked not knowing, liked thinking that the adventures were so fantastical that he wasn't meant to remember them.

He knows that's bullshit. And he knew it then, too. Toby wants to believe, though, and maybe that's it. Maybe he loves alcohol because it makes him think that he's worth more than what he is, and there's no denying it now. Tobias Beecher is a murderer. He kills, and his accomplice is alcohol.

All that he has is his life, and he'll spend it thinking about how he took hers, and Gen's, and he welcomes the remorse and the shame. What he's become is mortifying. He has death on his conscience, and it will always be his responsibility and his burden. There isn't a punishment or an act of contrition great enough for what he's done, and at the same time he's grateful to still be alive and free.

So what's left for him is the routine. He goes to work, then to the gym. Sometimes he'll catch a pickup game of basketball. He spends time at the hospital, and then it's home to an empty house. AA meetings twice a week, sometimes more. He can't have friends, he doesn't deserve to look for love again and he keeps his family away. He's bad luck, bad news, and the guilt is a part of him, burrowed deep inside, and it shadows everything he does.

Each time the thought crosses his mind that his life is dull, he remembers that he breathes, and whenever he craves the adventures he had when he drank, he wallows in self-hatred instead.

He expects that the censure will be especially bad over the next few weeks: the anniversary of Kathy's death is approaching, and his father drops broad hints about taking time off. Finally, Toby agrees, if only to spare himself the soft look on Harrison's face around this time, as if Toby's the victim. He's already indebted to his father, who hired him when no one else would, after the trial and his struggle to stay sober.

~

Keller goes back to the bar. It's a slow summer. But he waits a few days, because he knows that Lou will be there every night. He catches the bartender's eye, follows the direction of the jerked chin, and finds the guy in a booth at the back. Lou looks bent on self-destruction, like he'd been working a rough bender for the last couple of days, well past being shitfaced.

Sliding into the booth across from him, Keller waits patiently while it takes Lou a few minutes to remember.

Lou points a shaking finger. "You owe me."

"The fuck I do," Keller says.

As plastered as this guy is, he came prepared, handing over a mess of photos and a file with all kinds of goodies in it, from Toby's address and phone numbers to stuff he could've only found out by talking to friends or relatives. There's even a videocassette marked 'Daily.' It's all stuff that Keller could have threatened to take to the cops to get more money out of the guy. Only the guy – the one who ran over Lou's daughter – doesn't look like a murderer to Keller.

Lou gives Keller a paper bag full of little packets, each about the size of a nickel bag.

"The fuck's this?" Keller asks.

Lou shrugs. "Some of thish, summa that," he slurs. "Little extra for that added zing. Don' worry, he won't give you any trouble on thish. What you said, 'bout breaking. Thash what I want. Bastard. Fucking bastard broke my little girl."

The file is thorough. Keller reads about the backroom deal. Beecher lost his driver's license for a few years; he was on probation; he paid an enormous fine. It was his first major offense, not including a couple of DUIs where the charges were dropped, but the punishment didn't seem to fit the crime. Maybe the fact that he's the first born son in a generations old family of lawyers, or that he's had an eighteen karat gold spoon lodged in his ass through prep school, Harvard and Harvard Law is responsible for the leniency. The case landed a judge who was sympathetic to the needs of the wealthy men who contribute to the election coffers. When it all played out, Beecher wasn't even disbarred.

"Never took the stand, never said nothin', never apologized." Lou snuffles his way into another drink.

Keller writes a number on a piece of paper and shows it to him. Lou blinks sleepily, and then nods. "Done."

Keller smiles. This sum will speed up his plans for Vegas considerably.

~

The room is still mostly dark when Toby swims his way up into consciousness; his thoughts are muzzy and it feels like there's cotton stuffed between his ears. He reaches out for Gen and encounters only air – Gen's dead – and half of his bed is missing too. His eyes pop open. "The fuck?"

He's in what appears to be a hospital ward, lying mere feet from the next bed, and it looks as though the occupant is in restraints. Toby sits straight up. There must be twenty people in the room. Men. They're all men. Squeezing his eyes shut, Toby takes inventory. His head hurts, though nothing feels broken or sprained. He can wiggle his fingers and toes. His memory of how he came to be in the hospital is sketchy, but a talk with his doctor will straighten everything out. He fumbles around on the side of the bed for a call button, but comes up empty.

Annoyed to discover he's wearing only a thin, backless cotton gown, Toby throws back the covers and starts to get out of bed. He's swinging his legs over the side when he hears someone yelling his name. "Hey! And where do you think you're going, Beecher?" A man in a security uniform, a guard, looms over him.

"Uh-" he hedges. "I wanted to talk with my doctor." He stares at the nightstick hanging on the man's belt.

"Yeah, right." The guard gestures for him to get back into bed. "You'll wait your turn to see Dr Nathan in the morning."

Toby pulls the covers up to his armpits and tries not to hyperventilate. It's a loony bin. He's in a nuthouse, tucked into bed next to men in restraints. Did he check himself in? Has his family gone crazy and committed him, and more importantly, why doesn't he remember? He has to wait this out until morning. The reassuring thought that at least he's not tied down like some of the other psychos in here is crowded out by the terrifying thought that he's trapped somewhere with psychos.

A high-pitched, reedy noise escapes his throat. Toby squeezes his eyes shut and counts backwards from two hundred.

~

Dr Nathan turns out to be a pretty woman with dark hair and a no-nonsense attitude. Toby gets the feeling that she's exhausted by her job but cares too much to quit. She ignores his barrage of questions, tiredly asking if he's been taking any drugs, stating how that, combined with his head wound, may account for his disoriented condition.

"I don't do drugs!" he blusters. She gives him a look that tells him she thinks he's full of shit. The question he most wants an answer for finally comes out. "How did I get here?" he asks weakly.

Dr Nathan pins him with a look of disbelief, but her eyes are sympathetic. She pats him on the leg and pronounces him fit to return to the city.

Well, that's a relief, Toby thinks. He looks for somewhere to change, but no one will catch his eye, so he ends up dressing quickly while standing next to his bed.

"Where's my stuff?" he asks the guard who collects him. He's obviously there as an escort, so Toby doesn't get lost in what appears to be a gigantic building.

The guy looks at him as though he's speaking Cantonese. "How would I know? Probably in your locker where you left it."

Toby nods. It makes sense that there would be secure facilities for leaving personal belongings. He doesn't really pay attention to where they're going, just trails behind the guard. They pass through several automatic doors made of steel bars, and Toby zones out, thinking about how he has to get a hold of his lawyer so he can find out what legal recourse there is since he's been abandoned at some asylum. Obviously this is all a huge misunderstanding.

When he looks up, the guard's gone, and he's standing on the other side of a closed, barred gate. It's definitely not the way out, and he wheels around, grabbing hold of the bars. At the sudden move, blood rushes to his head, which pounds in pain, and then his back begins to throb with sympathetic soreness. Hospital beds are uncomfortable.

Another guard appears beside him. "Move it, Beecher."

Until he can figure out what the hell is going on, Toby decides to obey. He moves further into the room, staying to the sides; once he's out from under the overhang, he sees that the space is huge, akin to a large warehouse. There's a cavernous feeling to the area, possibly because of the two levels, or the command center in the middle, flanked by several game tables and a wall of televisions. The room is packed with smaller rooms, of which nearly all have see-through walls that look as though they're made from thick plastic or glass. Each individual room contains bunk beds, metal shelving, a sink and a toilet. One room has washers and dryers, and in another, a couple of guards sit relaxed by a microphone. Toby rests next to a pillar as he takes in these details.

Most disheartening is the fact that the room is filled with men: playing chess, reading, standing with their backs against the walls, leaning over the top-floor balcony, and prowling the space in packs. They look hardened, most of them thick with muscle, their eyes cold and mean. The thought that it's not a mental institution at all slithers through Toby's mind, but he refuses to dwell on it. Making his way further into the open space, Toby keeps his head down. He thinks that he hears someone call out his name, but that's impossible, since no one here knows him. He keeps moving, making sure to avoid eye contact.

Suddenly, there's a yank on his arm and he's bodily pulled into one of the rooms. He sucks in a sharp breath of surprise. Maybe skirting the middle was the wrong decision; nowhere seems to be safe in this place.

"Jesus, there you are." The man who'd pulled him into the room holds Toby by the shoulders as though he's about to shake him. "You okay?" He looks relieved.

"Yes?" Toby ventures. "No! I mean, I don't know."

"I'm gonna kill that fucking fuck," the man says, his mouth twisting into a sneer.

Toby looks at him, aghast. "What?" he croaks.

The man's expression softens. "I missed you," he says roughly, and pulls Toby into a hard hug. Instinctively, Toby's hands slide up and around the man's back. He breathes deeply, the hug somehow soothing him.

"How long was I gone?" Toby asks quietly. He's scared of the answer.

The man pulls back and studies Toby's face. "Coupla days," he says. "Doc had you on the good shit, huh?"

Toby smiles wanly. A loud noise on a PA system aborts any answer he has, and one of the guards opens the door. "Let's go, lovebirds."

Toby's companion bristles at the words, his expression transforming from caring to angry in an instant.

The hair on Toby's forearms prickles at the shift. "Okay," he says. "We're coming." He looks steadily at the man in front of him, willing him to calm down. Toby needs this guy, needs him for information. Apparently they're friends.

They line up with the rest of the inhabitants of the warehouse, and then a man in the control tower reads off a list of names and numbers. Toby pays close attention, trying to remember as many names as he can, his gaze skipping from face to face. He concentrates so hard that he nearly misses his own name, and then it's on to the man who's a steady warmth at his side.

_98K514. Christopher Keller._

The guard speaks into the microphone. "All right, you clowns. Everyone in."

Toby watches as everyone turns robotically, entering the rooms they're standing outside of, and then he's back in the same room as before, standing next to Christopher Keller. Stepping closer to the wall, Toby cranes his neck, watching the guards converging on the tower, how they trade places and finally all but two leave for what Toby suspects is the end of their shift. Obviously the doors are locked if there are only a couple of people left to stand watch all night, but he has to try the door handle anyway. Keller raises an eyebrow at the attempt, but he doesn't say anything.

"Plexiglas?" Toby points at the walls.

"Yeah," Keller drawls.

"Weird," Toby mutters.

"You ain't wrong," Keller says.

"How long 'til the lights go out?" Toby asks, his mind working furiously, trying to come to a logical conclusion that he can live with until morning.

Keller grins. He covers the space between them in one long step and cups Toby's dick through his pants, squeezing briefly. Toby's mouth falls open in astonishment and Keller kisses him, sealing their mouths together and shoving his tongue inside. As quickly as the groping started, it's finished, and Keller's propped against the bunk beds, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his legs spread.

Toby shakes his head. "I didn't realize the question doubled as an invitation," he says dryly. He licks his lips self-consciously.

Keller smirks. "You really whacked your head, huh?"

"I guess so," Toby replies.

"Five hours left of simulated daylight," Keller intones. "Lights off at eleven."

Toby nods. His body feels heavy, and his head aches. "Going to lie down for a while." He has to think all of this through.

Keller nods. "Okay."

Toby wonders if the leer has permanent residence on Keller's face. Starting to collapse onto the bottom bunk, he notices that Keller's shooting him another strange look, so he clambers onto the top bunk instead. Flopping over onto his back, he balls the pillow up under his head and stretches out.

The obvious deduction is that he's in jail. The guards, the roll call, the locked doors, and the fact that it appears he's more than just Keller's roomie add up to one word: prison. It doesn't make one goddamn bit of sense, especially since this is clearly a maximum-security building, so what crime could he possibly have committed to end up here, in with homicidal maniacs and serial killers? Does his family know he's here? Did they put him here?

Both Dr Nathan and Keller said something about his head.

"Chris," Toby says spontaneously, wondering a moment later why he says 'Chris' instead of 'Christopher' or 'Keller.'

"Yeah?" Keller responds immediately.

"What did you mean by I really whacked my head?" Toby's mouth is dry and his tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth. He wishes for a tall glass of ice water. If there's a mini-fridge tucked into that back corner of the room – no, cell – he'll happily play the part of Keller's bitch. He suspects there isn't, though, and there are only four and a half hours left until he'll probably have to play that part anyway. Though, Keller seemed genuinely glad to see him. Toby ponders that while he waits for Chris's answer.

"What do you mean what did I mean?" Keller sounds put out.

"I mean," Toby takes a deep breath. "Tell me how I wound up in the hospital to begin with." He sees movement out of the corner of his eye and follows it with his eyes. It seems prudent to stay alert in prison.

Keller stands in the middle of the floor with his back to Toby and his fists clenched. He swivels his body, striding to the front of the cell and glaring out, and then he's in front of Toby, his elbows resting on the mattress near Toby's midsection. He looks at Toby, his expression sorrowful and his forehead heavy with guilt.

Toby raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"My fault," Chris grits out. His gaze flits away and he curls his fingers into the blanket on the bed.

"You're going to have to give me more than that," Toby says.

Chris throws him an incredulous look.

"What?" Toby asks. He's truly confused.

Chris looks at him, and then backs away slowly. He snorts in disbelief, disappointment rushing across his face. "You're fucking loving this, aren't you?"

Toby rolls onto his side and props his head on his hand. "Actually," he says slowly. "I'm not loving this at all."

They face off in silence, and Toby takes the opportunity to study the other man, from the soles of his black work boots up his dark cotton pants that ride low on his hips, up to a ribbed thermal shirt that's stretched across his impressive chest and molded down his arms. Toby's drawn to how Chris's throat works as he swallows, and then he meets Chris's flat stare. In a blink, the vacant look on his face is replaced by a knowing smile and a quirk of Chris's eyebrow, and Toby flushes, struck dumb by the warmth in Chris's blue eyes.

"Toby." The quiet way that Chris says his name is entirely too intimate.

"What?" he asks sharply.

"Nothing," is the smug reply. "Just like sayin' it." He steps closer, reaching out, smoothing his hand down Toby's shin. "Hey Toby, when are you gonna trust me again, huh?"

Instead of kicking Chris away, his body responds, and Toby fights to keep from arching into Chris's touch. He has to put some space between them, now.

"When I feel up to the challenge," Toby responds acidly. His harsh words don't have as much of an effect on Keller as he hoped, because Chris nods his head in defeat and moves away. He leans against the far wall.

"We were in the library. I turned my back for a second. Robson cracked you over the head with a chair." His smile is grotesquely gleeful. "He's still in the hospital." He sighs. "Schillinger tried to stir up some shit, but McManus couldn't get the straight truth from anyone, had to let us all go." He rubs his knuckles over the back of his hand.

Toby digests this information, nodding. "Thanks," he says. He lies back down. Fuck, his head hurts.

~

His suspicion is confirmed during morning count. There's a man in a wheelchair with "Oswald Penitentiary" stenciled on the back sitting further down the line. Toby shifts his weight from foot to foot while he waits, not enjoying the hostility and repugnance in the guards' eyes.

A rustling noise draws his attention. He looks up to see a large barn owl perched on the upper railing of the second level. It blinks solemnly at him. The railing ripples, and Toby's eyes follow the movement. He stumbles, leaning on Chris and squeezing his eyes shut. Toby shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the image. He feels as if he's falling, his stomach dipping, his thoughts in a whirl.

~

Keller swings by Beecher's house the next morning. Yeah, the file's packed with surveillance photos: Beecher walking around town, a couple of him buying a carton of eggs, an early morning jog, a glimpse of his blond head in a crowd, a few shots from the rear as he disappears into a hospital. Keller wants to see for himself. None of the pictures show Beecher brawling, slapping a waitress, kicking a dog or anything else remotely violent. Maybe he's playing it cool until probation's done, but most psychos don't have that much control. Chris would know.

After he parks his motorcycle out of sight, Keller watches Beecher's house, standing in the bushes and pretending he's not a pervert. But after a few minutes, Beecher comes walking down the sidewalk, the strap of a messenger bag across his chest. He's dressed in khakis and a black polo, and Keller expects pristine white sneakers, but Beecher's shoes are well-worn, scuffed and dirty. It appears as though he's talking to himself, which usually points directly at crazy in Keller's book, but he stops and talks for a few minutes with a couple walking their dog, and then empties his mailbox before heading into the house.

Lights come on as Beecher moves around the interior, and Keller has a clear line of sight through the bay windows, watching Beecher strip out of his polo and kick off his shoes. He looks relieved, falling into an overstuffed chair, and then he bends, nearly in half, resting his head on his arms where they're pushed against his knees. He stays in the position for a good five minutes, and it's the weirdest thing that Keller sees over the next three hours of recon.

Beecher eats dinner, drinks bottled water, disappears into the kitchen, and comes back out with the paper. He sits in the same easy chair where he perched while eating dinner and watching television. No one calls, no one visits, and as far as Chris can tell, there's no drinking, smoking, snorting, shooting up or fucking. He looks down at the photograph in the open file. An interesting face, tired eyes, lines of grief around his mouth. Some crazy yuppie shithead he turned out to be.

Keller had watched the video of Lou trailing Beecher and recording his movements, and his whole perspective shifted. He thinks Beecher's either a real piece of work, a stone-cold killer, or he was dealt a real shitty hand. But where Lou's coming from – his side has merit. It wasn't a premeditated crime, but it was still Beecher's fault. He had options, he could have taken a cab or called a friend. Keller understands Lou's need for revenge.

He comes back the next day to learn Beecher's daily routine and shadows him all day. Keller watches as Beecher does errands, seeing what he buys, and how he talks with the cashier. After grocery shopping, Keller follows at a discreet distance as the guy walks home, changes his shirt and shoes, and calls a cab. They end up at the children's hospital, where he dons a bright red vest and heads up to the ICU. Keller waits in the parking lot, trying to piece together the Beecher puzzle.

Toby doesn't drink or smoke, he volunteers with children, and as far as Chris can tell, he doesn't even drive anymore. There's a copy of his driver's license in the file, but there's no car in the garage and Chris hasn't walked this much since he was a kid.

After the hospital, it's over to the community center for a game of hoops, though Beecher doesn't talk to any of the guys like they're friends. Next, they go to the center's basement for an AA meeting. The only time Keller thinks that Beecher's going to slip up is when they're walking home and he pauses in front of a liquor store. Keller gets close enough to see the tension in Beecher's shoulders. But that's it, and then he walks straight home, waters the garden, watches the news and goes upstairs to bed.

Keller thinks that he might die of boredom before this all goes down.

He's about to leave when the back door bangs open. He can't see the yard, but Chris can hear Beecher talking and laughing. Surprised, Keller edges around the fence, getting close enough to figure out that Toby's on the phone. There's a gap in the wood and he sees Toby sitting on the steps, phone to his ear, and he's chattering away like an excited kid. Keller's amazed. Beecher said approximately forty words all day and now he's going nonstop about his day, the kids, some puppet show, and getting his ass handed to him playing basketball.

Crouching down, Keller listens to the excitement, the flash of happiness that's apparent in Toby's voice. His whole face lights up, he's smiling, and it changes his whole appearance. Suddenly he's approachable. Keller's inexplicably jealous of the person on the other end of the phone when Toby's tone veers into teasing.

Beecher says something about visiting, and he's quiet for a moment, and then he's rejecting the offer, saying he can't get away right now, that he's too busy. Yeah, Keller thinks, too busy being miserable. Toby hangs up after a softly spoken, "Love you too, Mom" and the puzzle's solved. Beecher is miserable, and he's planning on staying that way. He denies himself friends, family and lovers. He denies himself transportation, luxurious foods, time for himself. Kathy's dad doesn't need to step in here: this guy's already doing a damn fine job of punishing himself.

~

It's nearing full dark when Toby wakes up, the last tendrils of twilight withdrawing from the horizon. He's sprawled on the couch, and his arms hurt, tucked under his head at an awkward angle. The baked heat of the day has dissipated, leaving only warm breezes pushing in through the window screens.

He doesn't know what woke him up. Perhaps he's forgotten an appointment, though he's sure that his service would call with a reminder. He rubs one hand over his forehead and down his face. What a strange dream. The prison symbolism isn't lost on him, but the rest, something about bandages and a dark-haired man, is nonsense.

The room is quiet, the house is still. Outside, the street lays hushed. No dogs are barking, no one's calling out a greeting to a neighbor, and the birds are soundless in their nests. Enjoying the uncharacteristic silence, Toby stands, shaking out his arms and rolling his shoulders back. Grabbing his sweatshirt from the back of the couch, he ties it around his waist, then shoves his feet into his slippers and pads into the kitchen. Flicking the light switch, he's peering into the fridge before he realizes that the overhead light hasn't come on. He flips the switch off, then drags a stool over, balancing with one knee on it and one foot braced on the door of the fridge. He taps at the fixture, producing a thin, hollow sound.

Outside, a menacing roll of thunder resonates in the distance, the noise curling back on itself with a growl.

Toby has the feeling that he's supposed to be somewhere.

Sighing, he unscrews the bulb and shakes it, but there's no telltale death rattle. He's just pulled open the pantry door in search of a fresh light bulb when, behind him, the kitchen floods with light. The once dim pantry is now light enough to read the labels on the cans. Toby freezes. He looks down at the bulb in his hand, and it slips from his fingers, falling as though in slow-motion, rolling end over end before hitting the floor. When it shatters, the light disappears.

Toby takes a deep breath, and then another, his heart hammering in his chest, his tongue thick in his dry mouth. Slowly, he turns around, bracing for something truly frightening, wild thoughts about aliens and electrical phenomena skittering through his mind.

The kitchen looks normal. The stool sits empty, leaning against the island in the middle of the space. There aren't any otherworldly beings croaking at him in guttural languages. Toby ventures closer, looks up at the overhead light. It's empty. The switch is still in the off position.

The violent crash of thunder makes him jump, and he gasps, slipping on the tile, throwing his hands in front of him as he falls toward the sink. The metal basin is cool against his palms. He looks outside. It looks as though it's been raining for hours: every leaf soggy and dripping with water, the pavement shining with puddles, the streetlamp casting a greenish glow on the sidewalk. There's a man standing in the watery circle of light, leaning against the post, and he's looking straight at Toby.

Toby grips the sink tighter.

"Come outside," the man says, and Toby reads his lips like he's standing two feet away, not two hundred.

The words are an invitation, an order, a plea. Toby nods. The light in the kitchen wavers, making the countertops look like black oil. There's a vine of ivy climbing up the side of the refrigerator. Toby stares at it as he struggles into the sweatshirt, engrossed in the rapidity of its growth. New shoots and leaves appear every few seconds, the vines following him down the hall as he exchanges slippers for sneakers. He walks blindly past the rain slicker hanging on the coat rack and ignores the umbrella resting inside the door.

_Come outside_, echoes in Toby's head. It's not his voice saying the words, it's the man's. Maybe he has some answers for Toby.

The air is sweet with fresh rain and fast-moving clouds cover the sky. Toby hesitates at the gate, unlatching it, but he doesn't leave the garden. A frog hops onto his shoe. A sunflower waves at him from Mrs. Dennis' lawn across the street. He thinks about the man under the lamppost.

Toby knows him; he's sure of that.

Approaching carefully, he skirts along the sidewalk, purposely splashing into a puddle. The water continues to reverberate long after he's moved on. The air around the lamppost is thick and hazy. Toby looks down at the cement, which shifts under his feet, cracking and resealing even as he steps.

A mild breeze carries the scent of lilacs past him.

"What's going on?" he asks, voice pitched high.

The man comes closer, moving out of the light and into the shadows. He's wearing what looks like pajamas: blue cotton pants and a long-sleeved ribbed shirt, oddly paired with heavy black boots. Toby's brow furrows. He tries again. "What do you want?"

"I wanna help you, Toby," the man replies. His expression is serious, but Toby sees the lines around his mouth. This man smiles broadly, and often.

"What- how do you know my name?" Toby blusters.

A shrug. "I know a lot of things."

"I don't know yours," Toby says, even though his heart speaks it with every beat.

"Sure you do," the man replies, his tone mellow. A sudden shift. "Quit being so stubborn." He spits the words out, his eyebrows drawn together, glaring.

Stung by the harsh delivery, Toby takes a step back. The air buoys him, pushing him forward.

"Even if I do," Toby starts. "Even if I do know your name, why are you here? How can you help me?"

"You need me," is the simple answer. The light behind him shimmers, cloaking him, and his skin shines. His eyes light up turquoise. He reaches out to Toby. "Me," he repeats. "I'll protect you. You trust me."

Transfixed, Toby slowly reaches out to clasp the man's hand. Their fingers brush together and Toby trembles. The light gets impossibly brighter, but Toby can still see Chris, his smile, his eyes, his love. Chris. Toby smiles back.

~

There's one thing that makes Chris uneasy. He hasn't been to confession in a decade, but he was baptized Catholic, and the stuff Lou gave him to feed to Beecher is an affront to his talents. He opens up one of the packets. It looks like ground seeds or herbs, with something dark and sticky holding it together. Dubiously, he eyes the contents. Whatever. He's getting paid.

He's supposed to make an impression, to help create a headspace for Toby, crafted by god knows who and tailored by Chris Keller. But Keller's been around enough guys who did hard time to know that the Toby Beecher he's looking at right now would have zero fucking clue what to do in prison, other than become someone's bitch.

He wonders about that. Maybe there's something that he can do to help Beecher, make sure that he's got someone to watch his back. It can't be too hard to replicate what this guy put together, and neither he nor Toby will ever know the difference. Actually it should reinforce what he's set out to do, and the thought of that kind of control causes excitement to shiver across his skin. Beecher's not going to know what to believe, and he sure as hell won't know what hit him.

~

A strange clanging noise wakes Toby. He stretches, arching his back and yawning loudly, limbs spread akimbo on the rumpled cotton sheets. Flopping onto his stomach, he buries his head under the pillow, then lifts the corner to squint at the clock, which reads 10:32. He's contemplating another half-hour of sleep when the aroma of brewing coffee invades the bedroom. He sits up, trying to remember what day it is, and contemplating the possibilities of who might be in his kitchen. He's positive that he told his mom not to come by, and he's sure that he didn't wander the streets last night, inviting random strangers into his house.

Something about the thought of wandering the streets gives him pause, and then he remembers the stranger who appeared after the thunderstorm. Did that only happen last night? Or was it a dream?

He pulls on the sweats he kicked off during the night, then rummages in the dresser for a clean t-shirt. Yawning, scratching the back of his neck, he walks into the kitchen to find the man from last night's dream - Chris - half-turned away from Toby, clad in running shorts and a white muscle shirt. He's barefoot, standing in front of the granite-topped island in the center of the kitchen, slicing strawberries with a wicked-looking knife.

"Huh," Toby says and rubs his eyes.

The apparition turns and grins, a smile so wide and brilliant that on the receiving end, Toby can only stare.

"There you are," he says. "I thought you were going to sleep the day away, not that you couldn't use the rest." Laying the knife down on the counter, he's barely an inch from Toby's face in the next moment. Chris trails his fingertips up Toby's throat. "Good morning," he whispers before sliding his mouth over Toby's. The kiss is gentle, questing, and Toby lets himself be kissed for a long moment, his thoughts churning, his body responding to Chris's soft lips.

Chris leans back. "Mmmm," he hums. "And happy vacation to you, too."

Toby stands stunned while Chris walks back to the island, scoops the berries into a small glass bowl, and then moves over to the range. Toby hears the crackle of eggs frying and watches Chris pluck a glass jar from the spice rack and shake its contents into the pan. Crossing from one side of the kitchen to the other, he opens the fridge and extracts a carton of juice. Next he goes over to the cabinets, taking out glasses, and finally back to the pan, where he turns off the heat and serves up two plates.

Toby stares down at his favorite breakfast: two fried eggs, mustard on the side, unbuttered toast, strawberries, and apple juice, and then looks back at Chris, who's slathering his own toast with raspberry jam.

"What?" he sputters.

"What what? I can't make breakfast for you once in a while?" Chris smiles at him again. "Toby, a whole week, just you and me. No work, no in-laws, no clients, no interruptions." He licks jam from his fingers and his eyes narrow in consideration. "Actually, why are we wasting time on breakfast?" He looks up at Toby. "Race you to the bedroom."

Toby's eyebrows raise up with surprise.

"Okay, you're right," Chris concedes. "Gotta keep our strength up. Because baby, I've got plans for you." He gestures with his knife. "Now eat."

Toby eats.

Darting quick glances at Chris throughout the meal, Toby tries to figure out how in the hell the man got into his house. He knows his way around the kitchen, which suggests that he'd been there before, but Toby has no recollection of sharing his personal space with Chris. Yet there he is, sitting casually with his elbows on the table, munching away, looking for all the world like he belonged there.

"It's not good?" Chris crooks an eyebrow at Toby.

Toby hurries to answer. "No, it's great." He smiles weakly, his thoughts whirling.

He forks a bite of egg into his mouth and chews, gazing around the kitchen thoughtfully. There's a coffee grinder on the counter, light green curtains on the windows, a spider plant hanging on a hook in the corner; none of which he remembers purchasing.

On the pretense of needing more juice, he gets up and opens the fridge. Instead of the usual slim pickings, the shelves are full, stuffed with all kinds of food he never buys, like real mayonnaise and Gatorade. What the hell? Closing the door, he studies the fridge. There's a picture that he's never seen before showing Chris standing in front of a huge waterfall, wearing a shockingly bright yellow rain slicker and flipping the bird. The magnetic frame reads "Honeymoon Delight at Niagara Falls."

Toby looks down at the gold band on his left ring finger and chokes on his spit. "No in-laws" echoes in his head. This has to be a dream. There's no other explanation for why a buff, gorgeous man – who cooks – is apparently living in Toby's house. Their house. Because they're married.

"You okay?"

Toby turns. Chris looks worried.

Toby waves him off. "Just swallowed wrong."

The lines at the corners of Chris's eyes crinkle, and he opens his mouth, no doubt to make a crude joke. Impulsively, Toby leans forward and brushes their lips together. He stands straight and looks down at Chris for a long moment.

"All right?" Chris asks.

Toby frowns. "Yeah," he replies. "Uh, be right back."

He leaves Chris to the task of loading the dishwasher and climbs the stairs to the second floor bathroom.

"You know it's bad karma for the cook to clean!" Chris shouts after him.

Locking the door of the bathroom, Toby sits down heavily on the lid of the toilet. Covering his face with his hands, he leans forward and rocks, then slides his hands over his ears, elbows resting on his knees. When he opens his eyes, the round bulbs over the vanity seem extra bright, splashing the room with streaks of white. One blink and the strong light is gone. Standing up, Toby moves over to the sink and studies the counter. A tall ceramic cup holding two toothbrushes sits to one side, and a bar of soap, an electric razor nestled in an open hard-lined case, its cord coiled up neatly, and a glass cylinder containing q-tips flank the sink. He opens the medicine cabinet and finds bottles of cologne, hair gel, and two sticks of deodorant. A half-used tube of peppermint toothpaste and a sealed box of condoms sit on the bottom shelf. Turning away, he eyes the matching monogrammed hand towels on the rack with distaste.

Hopefully they're hung as a joke.

Finally, Toby washes his hands and unlocks the door. The hallway feels different too, longer, and he's never noticed the tiny dark-wood table with a vase of sunflowers tucked into an end corner.

What a crazy dream. Toby pinches himself, and then again, harder. Yes, it's definitely a dream. And now that he's established the parameters, Toby decides to relax and enjoy the ride while he can.

Returning to the kitchen, he leans against the doorframe and watches Chris puttering around. He drapes the dishtowel on the faucet, scratches his arm, and looks absolutely at ease in Toby's kitchen. No, their kitchen.

Toby approaches from behind, grabs Chris's arm, pulls him around, takes a deep breath and kisses him. Chris's head jerks back fractionally but then he returns the kiss whole-heartedly, one hand on Toby's cheek, the tip of his thumb brushing an earlobe. Toby slides his hands down to Chris's chest, feeling the firm muscles under his fingers. He finds Chris's nipples unerringly, playing with them through the fabric. Chris groans.

Toby draws back, but keeps touching Chris's hard nipples. "You taste like raspberries," he says, licking his lips.

That's how he ends up bare-assed on the cool surface of the island in the kitchen, his thighs spread wide. Chris pulls Toby's cock deep into his throat, and looks up at him with bright blue eyes brimming with desire and trust. It occurs to Toby that maybe something in his head finally snapped, because this is the most vivid dream he's ever had. Chris's hair brushes against his stomach and his mouth makes the most perfect suction around the base of Toby's dick. As Toby yells out his pleasure, he realizes that he doesn't want to wake up. Ever. Toby shakes when he comes, heels drumming against the cabinets below, raking his fingernails across Chris's scalp.

~

Toby comes fully awake, sitting straight up in the top half of a bunk bed. He swipes at his eyes with the backs of his hands, takes in his surroundings, and gasps. "What the fuck?"

It's sure as hell not the marriage bed he shares with Chris; he's in an uncomfortable bed in a darkened room where two of the walls are made of glass and the sliver of recessed window is opaque. There's a metal toilet, matching sink and mirror, and an open shelf on the opposite wall, and Toby can barely believe the thought that starts to take form in his mind. Kicking away the scratchy blanket, he peers out of the glass wall. It looks like a detention center of some kind, or a low-budget hostel, or a mental institution, or anywhere other than the obvious conclusion when he takes in the identical-looking rooms, the guard tower in the middle of the warehouse-sized space, and the fact that no one is leaving their rooms- no, cells. "What-?"

He looks down: he's clad in a plain white undershirt and blue cotton boxers; he starts to run his hands through his hair and realizes he doesn't have any, it's been buzzed into a crew cut. "Oh my god," he murmurs.

The lower bunk creaks as though someone's tossing in their sleep, and Toby freezes, listening so hard that he forgets to breathe. Tiny lights sparkle around the periphery of his vision. He sucks in a huge breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and draws his knees up to his chest. He concentrates on pulling air into his lungs and pushing it out. Repeat. Repeat. The mental chant calms him, and he's proud of himself for not shrieking when a voice speaks, close by, asking, "'Nother nightmare?"

His eyes fly open and he's staring at Chris. Toby's entire body relaxes so quickly that his head lolls back, and relief floods through him. He knows Chris, and another few glances around the cell – pod – bring back remnants of his previous dream. His head feels muzzy, but he recognizes that he's in Oz. And his - well, Chris is here too. It must be another dream. It has to be a dream, or he's gone crazy.

Chris stares back at him.

"Dream," Toby gasps. "Just a dream."

Chris seems satisfied with that answer, and he ducks into the lower bunk. Toby sighs. The prison dreams aren't exactly nightmares, but he would have been okay never revisiting this particular layer of his subconscious.

"Are you coming down or not?" Chris's voice breaks into Toby's drowsing.

"Ummm," Toby hedges.

"Fuck, hacks don't care. They're all gone anyway. C'mon, come down." His plea sounds more like an order.

They curl up front-to-back, Toby resting his head on Chris's bicep and Chris's hand on Toby's waist. Toby drifts off again, feeling safe.

"Why're we in lockdown?" he asks, slurring the words.

"Not sure," Chris replies. "Some mess in Unit B. They needed our hacks." He rubs from Toby's waist to his hip and back again. "You wanna talk about your dream?"

Toby's forehead wrinkles in thought. He can't tell Chris that this is the dream. It is, right? Has to be. It's a tickle in his brain: what if his happily married life is the dream? No, that doesn't make sense. Oz isn't real. It's not.

"It was really nice, actually," he says. "We – don't laugh – were married, and we lived in a rambling house on some suburban street..."

Chris laughs quietly in his ear.

"Don't laugh!" Toby protests, chuckling. "We got married at Niagara Falls, and there's this picture of you on the fridge..."

Chris kisses the back of Toby's neck, his lips soft and warm.

~

"Let's go, you two!" Murphy stands in the open doorway.

Toby beams at him, stumbles out of bed, splashes water on his face and pulls on the pair of pants hanging on his bunk. They're a little roomy, but maybe he's thinner here, a new look to go with his short hair. After all, time's passed since he previously had the dream. Chris follows him out and gets in line, and then turns and whispers to Toby.

"You're wearing my pants." His expression is grim.

Toby laughs. "Sorry," he says. He unbuttons and starts to unzip, only to have Keller catch his wrist in a hard grip.

"What're you doing?" Chris's voice is raspy.

"Giving your pants..." Toby trails off at the look on Keller's face. "...back. You don't want them?"

Chris turns, his chest pressed to Toby's shoulder. "The fuck's the matter with you, Beecher. Keep the fuckin' pants on for another five fucking minutes, you think you can handle that?" He speaks to Toby, but he's looking over Toby's shoulder, eyes fixed on a spot far away.

Deflated, Toby zips up the fly. What's Keller's problem?

They re-enter the pod before breakfast, and it's silent. Toby strips the pants off and hangs them back on the bed frame, and then he sits down heavily on the lower bunk.

"What'd I do wrong?" he asks softly.

Chris's expression softens. "You can't sleep lately, tossing and turning. You always come down after a dream that wakes you up. You put on the wrong pair of pants today and that doesn't bother you. You wanna show every fuck in the place that you're losing your fucking mind, again?" He crouches down by Toby's knees. "Remember last time? Game face on and don't fucking smile at anyone except me. Got it?"

"Last time?" Toby repeats.

Chris tilts his head to the side. "Don't play me, Beecher." A pause. "Been anywhere good lately?"

"What are you talking about?" Toby feels cold inside. "Where would I go?"

Keller shrugs. "Okay. I can wait a little longer, but you're going to have to tell me eventually. Get dressed, I'm hungry." He stands up, scratches his stomach, and then touches Toby's back. Toby stares at Chris's knees. This feels too real.

~

The stench of burnt coffee hangs in the air in the cafeteria, but Chris looks momentarily pleased. "Coffee's horrible," he says. "But it's still coffee."

Toby gets a paper cup of it anyway, knowing full well he'd suck coffee from a dirty rug if it meant caffeine in his bloodstream.

They sit side by side on the bench, thighs touching lightly. Keller eats mechanically, shoveling food into his mouth, barely chewing. Toby's pushing the flavorless scrambled eggs around his tray when he feels Keller tense. Toby watches Chris slide his fingers down the pocket of his pants, checking the position of his shank. Toby tries to shuffle closer without seeming obvious about it.

A man with thinning hair and sharp blue eyes approaches them, holding his tray in one hand and leading a bunch of other guys in button-down, prison-issued shirts. His eyes skip over Toby to rest on Keller's face. When he speaks, his tone is nasty, insidious. "Hangs on your every move. Yeah, I trained him up right."

Chris takes a gulp of coffee. He turns to face Toby and his lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. "Well Vern, guess it's time someone had the benefit of growing up Schillinger and living to tell the tale."

The man's face pales, and Toby narrows his eyes. There's something about him, and Toby can't put his finger on it, but it makes his skin itch. His palms are suddenly sweaty, and he rubs them against his thighs.

"Well, it's good to see you lovebirds together again. To-bi-as," he drawls, and Toby's head jerks up. No one's called him Tobias since his grandfather died, and who the hell is this guy?

Whoever he is, it's obvious that he enjoys the glare on Toby's face. "It's nice that you're giving Keller all of the… benefits… that you used to share with me." He manages to sound nostalgic and chastising. Pursing his lips, he makes a kissing sound, and his entourage laughs.

With false joviality, Toby says, "Don't have to tell me twice; trained up right, remember!" He winks at the man – Schillinger – and hooks an arm around Keller's neck, pulling him close. A breathless hesitation, and then Toby presses his mouth to Keller's, his lips moving against Chris's lips. Without any clear thought, Toby slips his tongue into Keller's mouth, and sucks coffee off Chris's tongue.

Above them, Vern clears his throat. "Disgusting," he says, but there's no venom in his voice. He strides away and his gang trails him, shooting them dirty looks.

Toby leans away from the kiss, suddenly shy, gaze on his knees. He fumbles with his plastic flatware. "Um, sorry," he whispers.

Chris shrugs. "You just wanted more coffee," he says nonchalantly.

Toby barks out a surprised laugh, and remembers to keep his eyes on Chris when he smiles.

After breakfast, Toby lies in his bunk and formulates a way to question Chris about Vern without sounding crazy – no, crazier. Apparently he's been nuts before. Rolling onto his side, he watches Keller in the mirror. Chris rubs shaving cream onto his cheeks and chin with practiced ease, then fills the sink with hot water and grabs his razor. Tucking his arms under his head, Toby stares, zoning out, the dull scrape of the safety blade on Chris's skin filling his ears. The movement of Chris's arm going up, down to the sink, back to his face, up, then down again lulls him into a trance.

When Toby opens his eyes, the pod is dark. He watches a hack patrolling, dutifully shining his flashlight into each cell. He looks back at Chris, who's shaving carefully around his lower lip, eyes narrowed in concentration. He starts to ask Keller how the hell he can see in the dark when the guard knocks on the door, and Toby's eyes are still fixed on his face when he whirls around.

Keller's face is contorted, lips drawn back in an ugly snarl, the tendons in his neck drawn taut, and for the quickest of seconds, he shimmers. Toby blinks in surprise, and then it's just Chris, his face normal again. Keller points at the hack, the razor dangling from his fingers, and Toby's attention goes to something moving near Chris's knee. It looks as though something's wriggling, underneath his pant leg, and twisting. A fat black rat snake slides out of Chris's pocket, winding its way up to his waist. The black skin gleams as though it's been oiled, the thick muscles undulating as they compress. Keller doesn't react. The snake slithers across his shoulder blades and down one strong arm. It looks like ink, the shape tattooed onto Chris's bicep, and then it disappears into the sink full of soapy water.

Toby's frozen on the top bunk, unable to look away. Chris catches his eye in the mirror and smiles, and his teeth are long and metallic, jagged, the sharp tips catching the light from the hack's flashlight. Toby looks over at the door where the man's standing outside, not moving. Terrified, Toby flicks his gaze back to Chris. Keller's bent over the bowl of water, splashing his face, and then he swipes a towel over his cheeks, chin, and across his upper chest.

Closing his eyes, Toby takes a deep breath. When he opens them again, Chris is shaking him gently, one hand on Toby's leg.

"Hey, wake up." Chris smiles, and Toby controls his flinch. Straight white teeth. Dimples. Smells like lemon from the shaving foam.

He stretches. "How long was I out?"

"Coupla hours. You slept through morning TV time and another round of O'Reily tryin' to scam us out of our hard-earned pay. Speaking of, you gotta work this afternoon."

"Okay." Toby sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. "Uh, work?"

"If you can call it work," Chris snipes. "Up there in Sister Pete's air-conditioned office, drinking real coffee, typing up her reports." He rolls his eyes. "Yep, you got a tough gig there."

~

Anxiously, Toby goes to push his hair back, chuckling with chagrin when he remembers that there isn't much there. The black lettering on the door reads 'Psychiatric Evaluation.' Toby knocks lightly, and then pushes the door open. It's a large space, filled with bookcases, desks, chairs and a low coffee table. There are two plants by the window and a tiny jar with violets on the central desk. The smaller desk in the corner must be his, since there's a huge, ancient computer monitor taking up half of the desk and a foot-tall stack of files next to it.

Toby clears his throat. Murphy told him he was scheduled for work, so he's here, but where's Sister Pete? He pokes his head out of the room, but the hallway's empty. Struck by inspiration, Toby ducks back inside and closes the door, then hurries over to his desk and turns the power on for the computer. If he can't get online, at least he can try to hack into some files and find out what his alter ego's been up to in Oz. His dream alter ego, of course.

There's a note taped to the monitor.

_Tobias, Took a long weekend to participate in the rally over in Sewston. The warden isn't happy, but no one should disturb you. Please use your time well._

Toby sighs happily. The Oz dream's already feeling longer than the last one, and he loves that his subconscious created a safe haven for him. Toby wanders around the office, skimming book titles, and discovering the stash of graham crackers in a desk drawer. If the Sister's not showing, he's using her desk chair. He trades them out and sinks into the soft leather gratefully. The chairs in Em City are not ergonomically sound, which is another level of punishment in itself. Astonishingly, it takes only a few minutes to figure out the filing system, and he realizes that's because it's his system. After that revelation, he skims for confidential folders and lines them up on the desktop: Tobias Beecher, Christopher Keller, and Vernon Schillinger. He's got four hours to find answers.

An hour later, Toby turns away from the computer screen, his face streaked with tears, his eyes sore and an ache pounding forcefully in his temples. Standing, he shakes out his limbs, numb from sitting in the same position for so long, and he takes tissues from the box on Sr. Pete's desk.

He can't begin to wrap his head around what he's just read. Where is he? He's never had a dream so vivid, this intense, where he's aware of everything, where time moves linearly. He keeps expecting to wake up, but he hasn't yet. Toby blows his nose, wipes his face, and returns to the computer desk. Three hours of data entry should dull his mind enough until he can make it back to his room. Cell. Pod. He's a pod person. A giggle escapes his throat.

~

Toby spends the rest of the day on autopilot, moving numbly through gym time and television, Keller a constant presence at his side. He skips dinner, waiting until Chris leaves, and curls up in his bunk, pulling the covers over his head to smother his sad moans in the pillow. Who is he supposed to be here?

The horrifying, twisted story that the files told drags him under its weight. Pain, suffering and violence on every page. He's sure there's other stuff he doesn't know, things that never made it into an official record. Other despicable, heinous crimes. He has children, here. He had a wife. And a son. He hadn't even noticed the brand. Shifting, he slides his hand down the back of his sweats, curving over the right cheek. He coughs, choking on a gasp as lines raise on his skin to meet his questing fingertips. Christ, where the hell is he?

As hard as Toby tries, he can't get an exact fix on his feelings about Keller. There's a tingle of consummate hatred buried by acceptance, security, protection of Keller, desire, lust, and a thick streak of longing; in other words, too many warring emotions to deal with every time he's within a ten-foot radius of Keller. There's the shy glimmer of love, too, and that scares him. He knows he's not this man's bitch, no matter what a few lines in a report implies, but is he more than a convenience for Chris? Should it even matter?

So many questions. His head hurts, and the cooler air on the other side of the blanket helps. Toby lies on his side and tries to wake up. He waits for a few minutes and then tries again.

Keller deposits two oranges on Toby's bunk, and then touches him briefly on the leg. "Eat something for chrissakes," he says, stalking out.

Blearily, Toby watches Chris's departure, but he doesn't go far, settling down at one of the nearby gaming tables. If Keller turns his head, he'll have a direct line of sight to the top bunk in the pod.

Toby drifts again, and this time when he surfaces, he's missed evening count and the pod is dark. He knows Chris is awake.

"I don't," he starts. "I don't understand what's going on," Toby says softly.

The shape of Keller's body rises up from underneath the bunk, and Toby takes the offered hand. They sit side by side with their backs against the far wall, in the shadows, not speaking, and finally Chris sighs and wraps his arm around Toby, pulling him close. Toby pushes his face into Chris's neck.

"I know," Chris says, rubbing Toby's arm. "I know you don't."

Hesitantly, Toby tries to explain. "I keep having these wild dreams." He turns, shifting his body closer to Keller. "Sometimes I'm here, other times it's somewhere entirely different. It's like, I can be in one place. Then I'll open a door, turn a corner or wake up, and I'm in a different world." He listens to the soothing rhythm of Chris's heart. "There's no warning. And you're always there. Wherever I am, you're there too."

He notices that Chris's body tenses.

"Like that one where we lived in the suburbs?" Chris asks casually.

Toby smiles. "Whenever I see you, I know I'm safe." He sighs. "I know what happened, and I think I should hate you. I do hate you, a little, but," he shakes his head slightly. "I don't know. I feel it all. It hurts."

Chris tightens his arm around Toby. "What hurts?"

Tears fill his eyes. He tries for a laugh and ends up with a sob. "All of it. All of the deaths I've caused. How can it hurt so much?"

"I don't know," Chris says honestly. "You know I don't."

Toby hiccups, wiping his mouth on Chris's shirt. He's wrung out, drained, and he has some answers now, but not the ones he wants.

They sit in silence, Toby draped across Chris, their legs tangled together.

"If you don't hate me," Chris says suddenly. "Does that mean…"

Toby kisses him to shut him up. It's a teary kiss, and Chris's fingers feel cool against Toby's overheated skin.

The next night, a fistfight breaks out in the cafeteria at dinner, and now Toby's the only inhabitant in the pod. His nerves frayed, he paces from wall to door and back again. He wants to bang on the walls, get a CO's attention, ask where Keller is, when he'll be back. By now, he knows no one will respond, unless it's to threaten him with a trip to the Hole. Toby's never been, and Chris says to avoid it, that it's nowhere he wants to be.

Toby grabs hold of the bed frame and hangs down, stretching his arms, trying to think about something other than how long Keller might be gone. The fight hadn't even concerned them, but then someone shoved into Toby. Chris's mouth flattened into a grim line and he shoved back. Surprising himself, Toby tried to follow, determined to whale on anyone he could, wanting to work out some of his frustration through aggression, but the swarm of men was too thick. He saw blood on Keller's shirt when SORT stomped into the room.

He doesn't even care if his reaction makes him Keller's bitch; it appears he won't be escaping Oz anytime soon. As fucked as that sounds, he needs someone to watch his back. They go to the gym together, but it's not as though he can grow muscle in a dream. Toby sighs. Jesus, he really hopes this is a dream. It's getting harder to tell.

The lights have been out for hours and Toby's tossing around on the top bunk, his mind consumed with planning for the following day. He thinks about where he can go that's relatively safe, who he can look to, and whether or not he can pay – with money, not his ass – for protection. His prisoner account had twenty-five hundred dollars in it. Em City's separate from the rest of the prison, but it's still as dangerous as genpop. He dozes fitfully, and wakes immediately when the pod door hisses open. The hack pushes Keller in. He's still covered in blood and moving slow.

Toby says a brief, silent prayer of thanks, and waits until the guard shuts the door before jumping lightly down from the bunk. Keller looks as though he caught the business end of a nightstick a few too many times. "Chris," he whispers. "Are you okay?"

Expecting bravado or something along the lines of how they'll never keep him down, Toby gets a haunted look and a tired sigh.

"Yeah," Chris says. "How 'bout you?"

Toby laughs, shocked. "'M fine. I didn't get dragged off by SORT," he points out.

Chris smiles. "Wanna trade?"

Toby shakes his head. He touches Chris's arm, the round knob of his shoulder, his neck. Toby unbuttons and unzips, and Keller steps out of his pants easily, but when they take off the dirty, bloodied shirt together, he winces in sympathy as Chris groans in pain. Keller's chest and torso are a mass of bruises and Toby reaches out hesitantly. He glances up at Chris, who's watching him with dark eyes, and his face gives nothing away.

Toby touches his fingers to a blue-gray splotch so delicately that it's almost a tickle.

"I was a good dog," Keller says suddenly.

Toby looks at him, the question on his tongue.

"Played nice," Keller continues. "They couldn't keep everyone; solitary's pretty much full up, so's the hole." He takes a deep breath, his eyes flitting from Toby's mouth to eyes and then down to where Toby's fingers rest on his skin. "Knew you'd be up, had to make sure you were okay." He looks guilty, as though he'd said something he wished he could take back.

"I'm okay," Toby repeats. "Chris, I'm fine."

Chris grabs him around the waist and pulls Toby closer, even though his arms and chest must ache from it. He nuzzles Toby's ear, his hair, rests his forehead on Toby's shoulder and leans. Toby touches the back of Chris's neck, running his fingers up and down.

"Toby," Chris says, his voice muffled. "I know you're not feeling yourself, but I. I need-"

A loud bang on the glass causes Toby to jump in alarm, and he steps away from Chris, who sways on his feet, eyes trained on the floor. Officer Murphy points at Toby and then at the top bunk, a glower etched on his face. Toby points at Chris, at the bottom bunk, and then glares at Murphy, who responds with an adamant gesture that translates roughly into 'you've got one minute.'

Asshole.

He helps Chris into bed and crawls in next to him, then pulls the covers over them both.

"You should go to bed," Chris whispers.

"I am in bed," Toby replies reasonably.

"You know what I mean," Chris says.

"And you told me that solitary and the hole are packed, so what are they gonna do?" Toby moves even closer, throwing a leg over Chris's knees.

Keller grins fiercely, pride glinting in his eyes, and then looks like he's going to make some other protest, so Toby cuts him off.

Toby can tell that Chris is surprised because he tenses briefly, but he regains control immediately, opening his mouth under Toby's, fingers splayed as he takes hold of Toby's jaw, forcing contact between their bodies. Chris hisses as Toby's weight presses him down into the bed, and Toby fights to move away, but Keller won't let him.

"No," he says, pressing kisses against Toby's neck. "Now, c'mon." He shifts, bumping his hips against Toby, and shaking his head when Toby raises his eyebrows at a patch of bruising on his shoulder. "Don't care."

Wrapping his arms around Toby, Chris steals his breath, and their kiss is wet and messy. Chris laps at Toby's chin, bites at his throat, and snakes his arms down to grab roughly at Toby's ass through the cotton of his underwear. They're both panting when Toby rears his head back, gasping for air. Chris rolls them over, pushing Toby's legs apart and capturing his mouth for another devouring kiss. Toby works his boxers down his hips and Chris strips them off, then removes his own. Toby tries to ease Chris down, his hands gripping Chris's arms, but instead he falls heavily onto Toby, moaning softly in pain. Their cocks are pushed together firmly and they both grunt, Chris in loud, excited rumbles while Toby can't control the long moan that escapes his lungs. He has the wild thought that dream-Chris has six arms, because he feels fingers everywhere: handling him, searching his body from head to thighs, squeezing nipples, raking down his sides, palming his shoulders. They're kissing, tongues sliding, the hot wetness of Chris's mouth against his throwing Toby's mind into a fast spin. It's the best feeling of dizzy falling that he's ever had, like Chris wants all of him, all at once.

Two slick fingers nudge inside and Toby clenches his jaw, pushes down, and before he draws another breath, they're gone, followed by Chris's cock sinking slowly into him. Toby watches Chris's face, how his eyes screw closed and then pop open, how the sheer lustful need renders Chris unable to do more than groan and thrust. There's no adjustment, no time spent arranging limbs. Chris shoves inside, and Toby opens for him.

It's an immediate, vigorous rhythm, the slap of Chris's balls against Toby's ass marking the urgency of their fucking. For a moment Toby wonders what Chris is thinking, and then he's jolted from his musing when Chris grabs hold of Toby's shoulders, forcibly pushing him down into the mattress. He does something, a roll of his hips, and Toby thrashes around on the bunk, tipping his pelvis up, wanting – "More," he breathes out. Chris responds by driving in faster, circling, then pulling out, thrusting shallowly until Toby flails his arms, knocking against Chris's arms and scratching at his back.

"Oh god," Toby whispers, and Chris grins viciously, greed and desire gleaming in his eyes and – "Oh god," Toby says again. "Ahh, yeah."

He wraps his legs around Chris's waist and urges him on. They're both sweating, their skin growing slippery, and it eases the friction, lets them press and pull.

"God, you're, you're…" Chris gasps.

Toby feels intoxicated, he's flushed, his skin's ablaze with sensation and his mind whirls. Chris fucks him hard and Toby bares his teeth at the looming crest of orgasm that approaches. Fuck, he's fucking happy.

Chris grasps the side of Toby's neck and holds him, his thumb pushed against Toby's throat, squeezing, pounding into him, and all Toby can do is buck and moan for more. Chris glares, his face tight with concentration, and Jesus fuck, he's gorgeous.

Toby grabs at his cock, stroking it furiously. Chris slams his mouth onto Toby's when he starts to yell, swallowing his pleasure, curling his tongue against the roof of Toby's mouth. Chris drags his other hand through the come on Toby's stomach and groans, the sound rising from deep in his chest. His eyes close, his mouth works into a snarl, and then he's rutting mindlessly; Toby watches him, how he's balanced on the edge. Reaching down, he touches where they're joined, his fingers caressing Chris's cock as it enters him, and Chris's eyes snap open and he stares, open-mouthed.

"Come for me," Toby says, and he makes it into an order. "C'mon, Keller, fucking come in me."

Chris's throat works as he swallows heavily, and then he growls, his body shuddering as he thrusts and shakes and comes.

The hack on his rounds rouses them, and Chris stays in bed while Toby splashes water on his face and chest. He pulls on his boxers, tossing Chris's pair onto the bunk. He's brushing his teeth when Chris rolls off the mattress and steps closer. Reaching out, Chris strokes one hand down from the crown of Toby's head to rest on the back of his neck. Toby can't control the involuntary shiver of lust that Chris's caress evokes, and he brushes faster.

After a brief squeeze, Chris lets go and grabs his own toothbrush from the shelf under the mirror. "You never let me touch your neck like that."

Toby meets his serious gaze in the mirror and holds it, but doesn't acknowledge the direction Chris is attempting to take the conversation because he's not sure that he can handle it.

They take turns spitting into the sink. Chris watches Toby twist the faucet on and then off.

"You even smell different." Delicately, he touches the side of Toby's neck. "You're gonna have a bruise there. You'd never let me do that."

Toby feels simultaneously trapped and comforted. Someone's noticed that he's not himself, but Chris doesn't have any answers, either.

Chris mistakes the wild look in Toby's eyes as fear. "Hey," he says gently. "I still love you, and I'm gonna watch out for you."

Toby contorts his face into something akin to a smile, though it looks more like a grimace as he faces off with the mirror.

~

The repetition gets to him: the routines, the structure, and the limitations. He's constrained in his actions and restrained by everything surrounding him, including the pods, guards, prison, the entire system. No one who knows him knows that he's here. There aren't any words to describe the way that Chris makes him feel at night, in their pod, tucked into a shadowed corner or tangled in the blankets. It's something wonderful in a sea of an awful existence, but it's nowhere near enough to keep him from trying, desperately, to wake up. It's appalling to realize that he's adapting to life in Oz, and he's sickened by the duality of his emotions. Witnessing daily violence and shame causes him both discomfort and excitement.

Several weeks slip by, and Toby's giving up hope. It looks as though this is his reality, and whatever else he thought, or wished, hoped, and dreamed to be true is bullshit. Lying in the upper bunk, he waits for the lights to come on so he can shuffle through another pre-scripted day spent on high alert. The morning routine is a learned dance around the pod after count, a brief, lusty kiss by the sink, then breakfast. It's Tuesday, which means a bowl of the tasteless gravel they call cereal with powdered milk, and then it's on to Sister Pete's office. At least the meaningless work numbs his brain enough to tune out the nun's chatter.

The shade's up on the frosted glass window to her office, so Toby knocks once, distractedly, studying the toe of his shoe, and walks through the door. He bumps into someone's back and feels only irritation.

"Great place to stand, buddy," he mutters under his breath.

The someone turns. "Toby! There you are."

Toby looks up into the tanned, lined face of Ray Stanley, the man who runs his local AA meetings. His mouth falls open and he knows he's being rude, but he can't help it. The fuck is going on?

"I knew you'd make it; you never miss a Tuesday," Ray continues. He checks his watch, then winks at Toby. "You have just enough time to grab some coffee." He pats Toby on the arm and walks away.

Toby looks down. He's wearing the same green t-shirt and khakis that he put on this morning, only he put them on in Oz.

But now he's standing just inside the doorway of what looks like the storage room for a high school or community center, with stacks of boxes against the walls and a ring of hard plastic chairs in the middle of the room. To his right, a coffeepot, thermos, sugar shaker, powdered creamer and Styrofoam cup of straws balances on a card table. His nostrils flare at the scent of burnt coffee. He eyes the sugar with something akin to naked desire. It's so fucking weird. He doesn't remember how he got here, and he's probably in shock, but the most important part is that he's no longer in prison. He opens the door and looks out into a hallway that looks completely normal. It's dimly lit, but there aren't any bars or guards.

Someone taps him on the shoulder and he whirls around, hands coming up in a defensive posture. A slight, frail-looking woman stares up at him with wide, dark eyes.

"You okay? You seem a little jumpy."

Toby lets loose a chuckle that has an edge of hysteria to it. Lowering his hands, he wipes his sweaty palms on his thighs. "I'm good! Just fine. Hey, I don't think I can stick around tonight."

The woman frowns at him. "Why not?"

"Oh, well," Toby hedges. "It's been a long day, you know, really busy, and I'd like to get home, get some sleep." More like get the hell out of here and find an all-night diner and eat a real meal, complete with three kinds of dessert. Next he'll take a long, private shower, washing twice, and finally enjoy uninterrupted sleep on soft sheets.

The woman interrupts his train of thought. "That sounds like you want to go have a drink," she says gently. "Come on, why don't we sit down together?"

Toby's brow furrows as he looks at her. "No, I don't want a drink." Which is a lie, of course he does, but right now it's at about ten or eleven on his list of priorities.

"Of course you don't," she says knowingly. "Sit." It's close enough to a command that he follows her instruction; her grip on his wrist is stronger than he'd expected. Ending up as part of the circle, he's forced to listen to everyone's tales of woe. It's not that different from the group sessions that he attended in Oz. No, in some kind of hallucination of Oz, a dream, or any explanation that lets him keep his sanity.

They go around and introduce themselves, and Toby learns the name of the woman by his side. Cynthia's new to the meeting, so at least he knows that he doesn't have amnesia. Cynthia presses a cup of coffee into his hands. He sips at it reflexively, and then has to force himself to swallow. It tastes just like the coffee in Oz.

Toby sniffs the air, then breathes deeply. There's a pervasive mildew smell, as though they're in the bowels of the building, in a room that hasn't been used for years. It's definitely not the recycled air, sent through the filters repeatedly, that was pumped into Em City. The bulletin board by the coffee table is covered in colorful flyers, and he watches the people around him, sizing them up. One man flips a pencil over his fingers, hitting it on his knee, another plays with the plastic wrapping on a pack of cigarettes, the crinkle another layer of noise in a circle of fidgeting people. Even Cynthia taps her heel against the leg of the chair in a tinny rhythm. He's probably the only person here who's killed someone. Maybe that can be his tic.

The hour drags by slower than group with Sister Pete. There, at least, he had Keller by his side, and O'Reily across the way, and since he lived with all of the men, they became alternately more interesting and then incredibly boring in cycles. When Ray finally wraps it up, reminding them to come back next week, Toby's the first one out of his chair, Cynthia close on his heels.

As soon as he gets to the parking lot, he knows exactly where he is – the community center where he shoots hoops, and it's not far from his house.

"Do you need a ride, Toby?" Cynthia reaches and touches his elbow.

Toby looks at her distractedly. "No, uh, thanks."

"It'd be no trouble. Do you live near here? Maybe we could have some coffee. Anything would be better than that sludge." She smiles shyly, twisting her keys in her hand.

The penny drops. He's spent so much time inside, and inside his head, that he doesn't recognize one of the basest human interactions. He's tempted to take her offer, only he's not entirely sure who might be waiting at home for him.

"Uh, thanks Cynthia. That sounds nice. It really has been a long day, though, and a long week, so how about a rain check?" It can't hurt to keep his options open, just in case this reality isn't what he remembers, either, in case it's something flawed or he's on the lam. He checks her out again. His age, maybe a few years older, trim waist, pretty dark hair.

"Well, okay," she says with only a touch of disappointment in her voice. "I'll give you my number."

Toby nods agreeably, scanning the lot to make sure he didn't drive his car here. It's out of character, but everything's feeling off-kilter lately.

"Beecher!" The yelling is accompanied by the loud noise of a horn honking.

They both look up. Chris Keller leans out of the window of a blue pickup truck, its side panels streaked with mud. He taps the horn again. He's grinning at Toby. "Come on, stop draggin' your ass! Let's get the hell out of here."

With all of the crap he's gone through, real or imagined, even with what he's beginning to suspect is a brain tumor compounded by the hellhole of nightmarish Oz, Toby's happy for the presence of Keller in his hallucinations. He can't contain the delight at seeing Chris here, outside, his skin tanned, slouched indifferently against the door, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and gazing at Toby with affection.

"Toby." Chris leans forward and adjusts the side mirror minutely. "I know how much you hate this shit. Let's go!"

Toby embraces a surge of happiness at knowing that this is his reality. He belongs here, not in Oz, not trapped in a glass box; he didn't lose a son; he's not a monster. He turns to Cynthia. "Hey, maybe I'll see you next week."

She returns his smile tightly and tucks the scrap of paper in the pocket of her skirt.

Toby climbs into the passenger side. "Thanks for the ride."

Chris shoots him a strange look. "You told me to pick you up."

He leans, wraps his fingers around the back of Toby's head, and pulls him forward for a fierce kiss, his tongue tracing across Toby's lips and then slipping into his mouth.

"Hi to you too," Toby murmurs. He buckles his seat belt and leans back, draping his arm along the top of the seat. "I told you that? Well, good for me."

They pull out of the parking lot and Chris maneuvers the truck into traffic. "So who was that?"

"Hm?" Toby struggles to keep his eyes open. "Who was who?"

"That woman in the parking lot. Never seen her before," Chris replies.

Toby shrugs. "New to the meetings. She seems nice enough."

They're stopped at a red light. Chris turns and looks at Toby. "Nice enough?" He parrots incredulously. "She was giving you her number! You sexy motherfucker." He nearly purrs the last part, and Toby shivers.

"Yeah, as one alcoholic to another." Toby sniffs. "No big deal."

They both know it was more.

Chris stomps on the gas. "Shameless hussy."

Toby's mouth falls open. "You don't even know her."

"Neither do you," Chris points out. "But I wasn't talking about her."

Toby laughs. "I'm married," he says primly. He wiggles his ring finger at Chris. "See?"

"Some people don't care about that stuff." Chris slants a gaze at Toby. "I do."

Toby nods. "I do too." He thinks about that, because it wasn't important with Gen, but it's very important with Chris.

"I know," Chris says. "You hungry?"

"I am ravenous," Toby announces. His stomach feels empty, and he's light-headed, probably from a hunger headache. Or a tumor pressing on his brain.

Chris nods. "You wanna swing by that new burger joint up on Greene Street?"

"Yes," Toby says. "Drive faster." He closes his eyes.

Toby gorges himself at the restaurant, eating enough for two meals, but he's still exhausted afterwards. The cheeseburgers don't restore his mental acuity, in fact, he's moving slower than before, and when they finally arrive home, he has to lean on Chris as they make their way up to the bedroom. He clings to the bedpost as Chris undresses him, but when he's nudged toward the bed, he changes course for the bathroom.

Chris raises an eyebrow. "Where d'ya think you're going?"

"I need a shower," Toby says to his feet.

"Grab one in the morning," Chris says. "You're exhausted, and you need to sleep."

"I smell," Toby whispers. He's almost to the bathroom door.

Chris chuckles, and then he laughs, the warm sound filling the room. "You're such a priss," he says fondly. "Okay, come on."

It's much easier with Chris's help, and Toby leans against the cool tile of the shower wall while Chris soaps up his skin, his hands caressing Toby's body. Tilting Toby's head back, Chris lathers his hair. After rinsing, Toby slumps into a seat on the lip of the tub while Chris washes himself. Toby doesn't bother drying off and staggers into bed, the softness and size of the mattress making him grin sleepily in contentment. He listens as Chris brushes his teeth, hangs his towel and flicks off the lights. There's absolutely nothing on earth that compares to the feeling of clean, naked Chris gathering Toby up in his arms. Toby dearly wishes that he was more coherent when Chris touches his cock gently. He can't even summon up a whimper, let alone give a physical response, and then Chris pulls away, hugging Toby closer.

"You are tired," Chris says, and Toby hears the laughter in his voice.

"Mmmm." Toby moves so his head's on Chris's chest. The steady thrum of Chris's heartbeat is soothing. "Why's my hair so short?"

"Hmm?" Chris rubs Toby's arm.

"My hair," Toby says. "It's short." This seems important.

"Well, yeah," Chris says. "You said you wanted a change. Went to the barbershop with you last week. I was gonna get a buzz cut myself, but... moss don't grow on a busy road."

Toby's muffled laughter mingles with Chris's.

The house is as he last remembers it, full of their belongings, his and Chris's. Gen is dead and Toby's still a killer, but – Chris is there, and Toby feels safe. He's not afraid to go to sleep. Drifting off, he feels a breeze on his back from the open bedroom window, and then thinks he hears an owl hooting outside, laughing at him.

~

Chris finds a container labeled 'lasagna' in the back of the freezer. "My mom made this for us, right?"

Toby shrugs.

"So it can't be that old." Chris rationalizes. "Yeah?"

"I'll cross my fingers," Toby says dryly.

A search of the fridge turns up half a head of lettuce and two thin carrots. Chris mixes Thousand Island dressing from scratch.

"At least we have plenty of milk," Chris says. "You need the vitamins."

"Sorry for drinking all your Gatorade." Toby apologizes.

Chris shrugs nonchalantly. "No big deal."

After dinner, Chris leans back in his chair, stretching. He points at Toby's glass of milk. "Drink up."

Toby makes a face.

Chris stares him down. "Drink it." He watches Toby drain the glass.

"Okay, Mother?" Toby asks sarcastically, wiping the froth from his upper lip.

"Yes. You're feeling better tonight?" Chris asks.

Toby plays with his fork. "Yeah." He wipes his hand on his napkin. "Thanks for taking care of me." He smiles shyly.

"'In sickness and in health'," Chris quotes. There's silence for a moment, and then he nods decisively. "Let's go out. We are on vacation; we can even stay out past curfew." He rubs his hands together.

"Don't think for a second that I'm letting you off your leash, Keller," Toby warns. He wants to keep Chris close.

"Nah." Chris grins. "I don't want anyone but you; s'why I married ya. Why get the milk for free when you can buy the cow?" He laughs. "Ow!" He rubs his arm where Toby's punched him.

Toby glares. "I am not livestock." He clears the dishes and stomps past Chris, who's still laughing.

Loading the dishwasher, Toby admits he's disappointed. He wants to stay in tonight, reveling in Chris's company. He still hasn't completely come to terms with the fact that they live together, that they love one another. That Chris knows him so well.

Chris saunters into the kitchen, carrying his plate and silverware. "Don't be like that. I wanna go somewhere we don't know anybody, some place I can show you off." His tone is cajoling.

Toby straightens up, smiling. "Yes. I want that."

His reward is a slow, thorough, wet kiss. Chris tastes like marinara and oregano, and Toby crushes their bodies together for a second lingering kiss. Slowly, Chris slides his lips away and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Toby's mouth.

"Don't forget the glasses," Chris says. "I'm gonna go change."

It's still seventy-four degrees outside, even at eight-thirty at night. Pulling on a black muscle shirt, Toby rifles through his closet and finds a pair of pants he doesn't remember buying. They slide on as though they're tailor-made, the tight leather conforming to his body. He feels sleek and confident in them, and is rubbing his fingers through his hair when Chris comes up behind him. Toby checks him out in the mirror: black jeans and a white cotton t-shirt stretched tight across his chest. For a brief moment, Toby feels overdressed, and then Chris molds himself to Toby's back.

"Wow," he breathes out. "Maybe we should just stay home and fuck."

Toby swallows thickly, lust making his balls tighten. His nipples harden involuntarily, and he tilts his head back to rest on Chris's shoulder. They curled around each other in bed last night, Chris's breath warm on his neck, but that was all, just for comfort, for the familiarity, the safety. This is something new that Toby can't wait to explore.

"Show me off," Toby reminds Chris, a grin spreading slowly across his face.

Chris tightens his hold on Toby. "Fuck yeah." He licks the side of Toby's neck.

~

Toby sits high on the back of Chris's motorcycle with his arms snug around Chris's waist. Chris notices that they get a lot of looks when they're stopped at a red light or as they're going slowly around a corner, the crosswalk jammed with people. He grins. Toby looks fucking hot, and Chris knows he's easy on the eyes, too.

Chris takes Toby to an underground club. Literally underground, it's underneath a warehouse in a part of the city where he's sure that Toby rarely ventures. The space is enormous, at least two football fields in length.

At first, the expression on Toby's face is one of disbelief, as if he thinks Chris was teasing about going out, probably because the warehouse looks deserted, and the few people in the parking lot are all dealers. Chris shakes his head at the one guy who approaches them. "We're all set." Next to him, Toby breathes a tiny sigh of relief.

As they get closer to the building, Chris feels vibrations in the ground beneath his feet. They're still half a block away when they hear the music. There's a line to get in, which Chris bypasses, going straight to the bouncer, who pulls Chris into a backslapping hug while Toby stares. The bouncer nods at Toby, unclips the black velvet rope, and Toby and Chris are through the door. Inside, the club is packed with people in varying stages of undress, and the heavy thump of bass throbs in a rhythm designed for dancing and fucking. Chris thinks they can get away with either or both given the state of the dance floor. He wraps his arm around Toby's shoulder, pulling him close. "You ready?"

Toby turns to look at him, and his eyes are clear. "For anything," he says, and Chris's gut twists. What Toby's feeling tonight isn't real, and the welcome reminder grounds him. He pulls Toby flush to his chest and speaks directly into Toby's ear, all hot breath and quiet words. "You lead."

They make their way onto the dance floor, into the crush of bodies, and Chris looks at everyone, gauging their interest in Toby. He feels extraordinarily protective tonight and it's Toby who has his full attention, especially in those pants.

~

They've barely been on the floor for ten minutes when Toby grows bold. They're dancing closely, arms looped around each other, kissing occasionally, Chris sucking on Toby's bottom lip. Toby feels impossibly free. Chris is right: he doesn't know anyone here, and it's probably all in his head anyway, so what the fuck does it matter? The music is inescapable, pounding into his ears, filling his body with the desire to move to it. He feels relaxed and wired all at once, and he looks over at Chris, who has a saucy grin on his face. Toby wishes it was the only thing Chris was wearing, and then two simultaneous thoughts wrestle for attention: Toby wants to fuck him. There's too much space between their bodies.

He's moving in when the music glides into a slower song, the deep bass evening out into an occasional thrum replete with tinkling sounds, like someone's playing water glasses. The entire room goes completely dark for several long moments, and there's a dreamy, loose vibe in the air. Industrial-sized fans blow air down onto the dance floor. A hundred disco balls suddenly spin with light, the reflections racing around the club, illuminating dark corners. Toby can see the notes sparkling in the air and he points, laughing, and then suddenly a cascade of white and black balloons fall from the ceiling onto the crowd. The light makes the balloons glow, and Toby throws his head back and yells as they shower down. Chris bats a balloon at him, and as it passes, Toby watches the trail of light in its wake. Looking around, he seems men trapping balloons between their bodies, rubbing, and continuing to dance.

Toby grabs Chris's bicep and pulls, stepping closer to meet him halfway. The cotton of Chris's shirt gets in the way of Toby's desire to touch Chris's skin.

"Take off your shirt," he yells.

Chris looks at him with a supremely satisfied expression that makes Toby want to roll his eyes. But he wants more skin, so he stares until Chris lifts the hem a couple of inches and then lowers it teasingly.

Toby looks up and determination shines from his eyes. He raises one eyebrow impatiently.

Chris winks. He strips his shirt off in one fluid motion, tucking it into the waist of his jeans. He leers and Toby attacks, mashing his mouth against Chris's, slipping his tongue in, licking across Chris's teeth and on the roof of his mouth. He groans, his hands moving up to clutch at Chris's shoulders.

The music feels like it's expanding and constricting, the hairs on Toby's arms standing up as the notes march across his skin. The vibrations are like a caress. Chris bats another balloon out of their way, and Toby watches out of the corner of his eye, mesmerized. Chris laughs against Toby's mouth. The first time someone steps on one of the balloons, the popping sounds like a firecracker, scaring Toby. He jumps, pushing closer to Chris's body. It's hot under the lights, in the mass of people, and Chris's chest and torso glisten with sweat. Inclining his head, Toby licks at a fat drop on Chris's collarbone, and it tastes both salty and sweet. He runs his tongue over his upper lip, and is about to dive in again when someone bumps into him hard and he stumbles. Chris turns, pushing Toby behind him, and shoves the offending person away with the heel of his hand, leveling a nasty glare at them.

Toby's eyebrows lift in surprise. It was obviously an accident, and Chris in protective mode is frighteningly hot. He pulls Chris back against him, kissing his shoulder, murmuring words of comfort. "'M fine, I'm fine."

Raising his head for another kiss, his attention is caught by a flutter of something in the rafters. A brownish white shape, sitting high above the disco balls. A sliver of light shines upward. Toby squints. There's a snowy white owl perched on a beam, blinking large black eyes at him. Toby's world tilts. He reaches out blindly, seeking his anchor, looking for Chris. He can't stop staring at the owl. It puffs its feathers unconcernedly, head rotating away. Toby gasps when something warm and wet touches his face; he's sure it's raining, they're in the dark forest, and he can hear the chirrup of crickets in the distance.

Chris groans in his ear. "Kiss me."

The owl flutters its wings and prepares for flight.

Toby sinks to his knees, his hands grasping at Chris's thighs. He looks up at Chris, and then back to the rafters. The owl is gone.

The music speeds up with a rattle of drums and synthesizer. Toby's face is level with Chris's zipper and he realizes that he can smell Chris's arousal through the denim. He moans wantonly. He's quick to stand, his head spinning, and he launches himself at Chris, hands on both sides of his face, drawing Chris close for a scorching kiss. Chris opens his mouth wide, welcoming Toby's assault. He reaches, grabbing Toby's ass and yanking him forward. Toby grunts as their dicks push together through their pants, and he feels hot all over, a fission of molten desire twining up his vertebrae, hitting his brainstem with an electrifying shock. His thoughts are consumed by the fastest way to get Chris naked.

Chris grinds against him, rolling his hips, thrusting against Toby's groin. Toby breaks away from the kiss, throwing his head back, letting the lust spread from his spine throughout his whole body, feeling it coursing through his veins, confined only by his skin. Chris bites at Toby's neck, licking from collarbone to jaw line and sucking at the skin near his earlobe. Toby runs his hands down Chris's arms, the heat of his skin causing Toby to push harder. Tipping his head up, Toby stares at Chris's chest, his torso, all of the defined muscles flexing and working in time to the beat, in time to their hips and heartbeats.

He pulls off his shirt and throws it on the floor, and then leans back in for more Chris.

"Fuck!" Toby shouts when their bare chests touch and press. He lowers his chin and stares intensely at Chris. "Fuck," he repeats.

Chris returns the look, equally intense, his eyes boring into Toby, though the corner of his mouth lifts in understanding. He touches Toby's face, pushing his fingers through Toby's hair, cupping the back of his neck and bringing him in for another kiss.

There's no break in the music, no break in the thump and the grind, no break in the crowd around them as it jumps and twists around them. There's no place he'd rather be than in the midst of the writhing mass of men, loud music surrounding them, his chest tight, sweating, his throat dry, all for Chris. All because Chris is there with him, dancing, pushing, tugging and stroking. Must be love, Toby thinks crazily. I'm in love. And he's in love with me.

"I love you!" Toby yells, surprising himself. "Love you!"

An indescribable emotion flickers in Chris's eyes, but when he blinks his eyes show nothing but desire and heat. He captures Toby's face with his hands and leans in close. "Love you," he murmurs against Toby's ear. "Wanna fuck you. Let me fuck you, Toby."

Toby stares at him, then grabs Chris's hand and plows a path to the door.

~

Chris doesn't remember a single turn they make on the drive back to the house. Walking up the driveway next to Toby, he notices the way that Toby's hair gleams in the dusky light of the moon. He can't settle his gaze on any one place and skips back and forth between Toby's ass and his luscious mouth. He knows he says things that make Toby laugh: a rich, warm sound, and Chris wants to listen to it more often. He feels like he's walking through a haze, and sure, he's buzzing from the adrenalin, but there's no accounting for the rest.

"Walk me to the door?" Toby teases.

They're standing in front of a wide stoop of five whitewashed wooden steps leading up to a large front porch. The front door is sunken in the frame, with a wall on either side that creates a sheltered nook. The porch light shines brightly, showing a red door and an ornate lion's head doorknocker. Chris has seen the front of Toby's house, but he's never seen it with Toby next to him, one arm around Chris's waist. Toby's eyes are bright with anticipation.

Climbing the stairs after Toby, Chris watches how Toby's body moves, and then Toby tucks his hands behind his back, leaning against one of the walls in the enclave at the door. He looks at Chris expectantly.

Tilting his head, Chris moves fluidly, bracing his forearms on either side of Toby's head, and then he leans in closer, making sure to keep space between their bodies. Toby tilts his chin up and widens his stance. Chris smirks. He's always ready for a challenge.

They stay frozen in place for a few moments, and finally Toby swallows hard and gives in. "No goodnight kiss?" He snakes his tongue out, licking slowly along his bottom lip.

"Got more than a kiss in mind," Chris says, tracking the progression of Toby's tongue. Carefully, he cants his head closer, skimming his mouth over Toby's, and whispers, "So. Much. More."

He punctuates each word with a faint kiss. Sliding his hands around, he takes a firm grip on Toby's ass and squeezes, and then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of the leather pants and tugs. "Starting with gettin' you out of these."

Toby makes a strangled noise in his throat and Chris thrusts his tongue into Toby's mouth.

Above them, the light flickers and then blinks out.

~

"I… haven't. Not for a long time," Toby confesses. The words don't make sense. Of course he has; they're married. What happened in Oz was all in his fucked-up head, so that doesn't count, and he doesn't want to remember whatever his life was before Chris.

Chris rocks back on his heels. He's already way past his stopping point, and his dick throbs as he tries to slow his breathing, tries to calm down. He's not a complete prick. He doesn't take without asking, and he certainly doesn't go where he's not wanted. But fuck, it's hard not to fall onto Toby, throw his legs open and plunge into his tight, hot body. Toby's spread out on the big bed, naked, his cock hard and leaking, the combined scent of their arousal overpowering the clean smell of fresh sheets.

They've been kissing for what feels like hours, ever since that first wanton, luxurious kiss when Chris pressed Toby against the wall under the busted porch light. Making their way through the house sideways and backwards, they stumble into the walls, refusing to be separated more than a scant inch or two from the other's mouth. The tension is a constant prickle of energy buzzing around them, and it contracts and then explodes when they reach the bedroom.

Chris thinks about performing a slow, drawn-out seduction, perhaps something requiring sweet words and some coaxing, but Toby throws that idea away along with their shoes, belts and clothes. Chris doesn't remember the last time he was stripped naked so fast, and his mouth quirks in an impressed smile at the end of the whirlwind experience. He pushes Toby onto the bed, testing seeing how much Toby will take; he takes it all and then demands a lot in return. When Chris covers Toby's body with his own, they both gasp out loud at the feeling of bare skin on skin.

Chris doesn't even want to get straight to the fucking. He wants to touch and taste, wants to smooth his hands along Toby's shoulders and arms, tangle their legs together and grind, letting their cocks absorb the sensations. Running his fingers over Toby's scalp, Chris curls his hand around the base of Toby's skull, tipping his head back and sucking at his throat. Toby groans, and Chris feels the vibration against his lips.

Toby pushes against Chris's arms for leverage as their bodies arch together. His mouth is swollen from kisses because Chris can't stop nipping at his bottom lip. Toby breaks free from Chris's mouth, moving down to pay homage to Chris's chest, laving his nipples and chewing on them. He moves with Chris's body, riding him, grinding into him as Chris bucks and writhes under the attention.

Kneeling up, Chris closes his eyes and wills his heart rate to slow, promising himself several kinds of sexual pleasure later if he can calm down now. It doesn't work, especially when he hears Toby moving around on the bed and opens his eyes to see Toby on his knees and one elbow, ass in the air, one hand rooting through the drawer of the nightstand. Without thinking, he reaches and pulls, and Toby's loud laugh turns into a louder string of vowels when Chris bites his cheek, then swipes his flattened tongue against Toby's hole. Toby's whole body relaxes, becoming pliable under Chris's hands. Wrapping his arms around Toby's thighs, Chris pulls him closer, alternating between licks and little stabs with the tip of his tongue. Toby's face hits the sheets and he groans brokenly.

"Jesus, Chris," Toby grits out.

Chris hums happily, his spit slicking the way as he stiffens his tongue and burrows inside, spearing Toby open, holding his legs immobile as Toby twitches and shakes.

Chris's jaw tires long before he's ready to quit, but he's loath to stop. Toby's balanced on his upper arm and the crown of his head. He pulls on his cock with his other hand, rocking against Chris's face, and his voice is hoarse from moaning. A sheen of sweat glistens on his skin. Resting his forehead on Toby's ass, Chris notices what Toby extracted from the nightstand. A tube of Glide and a thin blue dildo lay waiting for him next to Toby's knee.

Lust punches through him, made even worse by the fact that he can't push Toby's thighs further apart and shove inside the way he wants to, can't, won't do that to him. A deep groan wrenches from his throat, and he sucks in a ragged breath.

Sitting up, Chris shakes out his arms and tilts his head to either side for a few seconds, stretching his neck. Toby starts to slump toward the bed, so Chris grabs him around the waist with one strong arm and helps him flip onto his back. Mutely, Toby looks at Chris, the imprint of the mussed sheets on one side of his red face. His eyes look green in the lamplight, and he worries at his bottom lip.

Then Toby smirks at him and thrusts his hips up, the suspended moment passes, and Chris's dick takes over thinking for him. Grabbing the toy and the lube from the bed, he watches Toby's smirk evolve into a look of anticipation. Crouching down, Chris captures the head of Toby's cock in his mouth and suckles at it while he flicks open the tube.

"Ah!" Toby sucks in a sharp breath. He rests his hands lightly on Chris's head.

Chris laps at the crown, curling his tongue, hands busy between Toby's legs, spreading lube on his fingers. Sliding down the bed, he lies on his stomach, cheek against inner thigh, and balances the toy on Toby's hip. He licks one finger unthinkingly, but the cringing expression is unwarranted as the lube tastes faintly of artificial fruit. Softly, he strokes his fingers down from balls to asshole, and then pushes the tip of his middle finger inside.

Toby groans. "More."

Chris scrapes his stubbled chin against Toby's leg. "Nuh-unh," he murmurs.

"Yes-unh!" Toby responds. He squirms, trying to thrust up without knocking off the dildo.

Chris slips his finger in up to the second knuckle, and then stops again, waiting for Toby's reaction.

"You fuck." The words are accompanied by a pleading groan.

Grinning, Chris leans in closer, and with slick fingers and wet tongue, he works Toby open, licking, pushing and kissing his way inside. He keeps up gentle pressure as he sucks Toby's balls into his mouth, alternating between them, rolling them around with lips and tongue, and listening to Toby groan and pant above him. Sliding the dildo down the crease of Toby's hip, he slathers the first few inches with lube, and then taps the tip of it against Toby's hole.

"Ready?" His voice sounds raw.

"Yes, yes," Toby replies instantly. "Yeahhh, c'mon." Lifting his legs up, he grabs the backs of his knees, pulling his thighs nearly flush with his body. The move shows off his muscular hamstrings, stretched taut, and exposes his asshole.

"Yeah," Chris whispers roughly. "Greedy little slut."

Toby moans in arousal. Chris grins at him. "Slut," he says again, and Toby grabs at Chris's arm, urging him to hurry.

Chris watches hungrily as half of the toy disappears inside Toby's body. His tongue darts out, licking at the skin where the dildo stretches Toby's hole. Toby arches up off of the bed and whines, a high, needy noise that makes Chris lick faster, his nose nudging at Toby's balls. They play for a long time: Toby's body bending, stretching, and trying to get more of the dildo, Chris's fingers and tongue. Chris presses the toy in and out of Toby, drawing it all the way out before shoving it back in, and then rubbing, twisting it, and listening to his shaky, blissful moans.

"More, please, please." Toby's voice is roughened with need.

Nodding, Chris slips the dildo free and plunges three fingers inside the slick heat of Toby's body. Arching his back, Toby gasps, sounding sexy as hell. He moans, tilting his hips and rubbing against Chris's hand. Chris ducks under a raised leg and moves up the length of Toby's body, staying close by his side, his other hand caressing Toby's jaw and pulling his head to the side for a passionate kiss. He works his fingers in and out, thumb rubbing at the delicate skin under Toby's balls.

Toby sighs into Chris's mouth, his tongue searching, licking at Chris's teeth.

"Ready for more, you still want more?" Chris teases. He watches as Toby's eyes clear and focus, and then his gaze narrows into a glare before Toby's face falls into a pleading expression.

"You know I am," Toby whispers. "Need it, god, need you," he says desperately, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Okay," Chris reassures him. "Okay, sit up."

Toby moves as though he's underwater and pushing against a current. Chris props himself on the pillows, legs spread, and pulls Toby onto his lap. There's a strip of condoms on the nightstand, and Toby rips the packet out of his hand when Chris tries to open it, fumbling because of his slippery fingers.

Chris is busy watching Toby's cock bobbing against his stomach, so when Toby leans down and sucks his dick, his hips jerk up involuntarily. Toby looks up at Chris, lips stretched, pupils dilated with pleasure. Chris flashes back to watching the dildo stretch Toby's asshole, and he has to grab the base of his cock, hard. Toby sucks further down until his nose bumps against Chris's finger. He pulls back, tongue stroking along the underside of Chris's dick, and licks his lips as he grins, then looks down pointedly. Dazedly, Chris follows the look. Toby's put the rubber on with his mouth.

"Jesus, Toby," Chris rasps. "Where the fuck… never mind. Don't care." His arms feel heavy, and it's an effort to point at Toby, and then at his dick. "You. Here." He's pretty sure that his words are coherent, but even if he forgot to say them out loud, Toby will get the gist.

Toby throws a leg over and straddles Chris. Hands solid on Chris's shoulders, he leans forward until their foreheads touch. Chris keeps a firm grasp on his cock, helping Toby guide it inside. The room is quiet save for the noises they make shifting on the bed; they're holding their breaths and as Toby seats himself in Chris's lap, they both exhale noisily. Chris grunts in satisfaction, slowly uncurling his fingers to feel Toby flush and quivering against him.

Chris braces his feet on the mattress and pushes up, slowly. They curve together at first, mimicking the other's movement, and Toby lets Chris control the rhythm. Chris settles into the measured, easy pace of a man savoring every thrust. He looks up, studies Toby's face, and sees the beginnings of a grin.

"What?" Chris gasps.

Toby flushes, the redness spreading down his neck and chest. "Nothing," he murmurs. "Feels good." He smiles, happiness softening his gaze.

Chris's smile feels as though it splits his face. He wants to study every inch of Toby's body, learn every line, memorize every reaction, and then use it all to his advantage. Toby deserves to feel good, and he's the man who will make it happen.

Dipping down, his hands pushed into the covers for balance, Toby leans forward and kisses Chris unhurriedly. Grabbing hold of Toby's hips, Chris helps him to move, surging up and rolling back, and Chris responds with shallow thrusts designed to push whispery groans from Toby. He's exceedingly pleased when it works and Toby moans against his mouth. They kiss until Chris's lips are sensitive and his nipples are hard and tight. He bumps against Toby's ass a shade faster, and Toby reacts by squirming, sitting up straighter, and helping to push and squeeze.

Chris builds up the pattern of rise and fall and soon Toby's hands grip the headboard as he surges up and down, his mouth open on a permanent sigh and his eyes filled with desire and want. Tearing one hand from Toby's thigh, Chris makes a vee with his fingers and helps to hold his dick straight. Toby moans as he drops down more heavily. Chris snaps his eyes back to Toby's gaze, and they stare at one another, flushed, panting, and craving more, faster, harder.

"Oh, oh," Toby cries out with each slide up, and then "yeah, yeahhh" on each slide down.

"Oh, god," Chris groans. He's in awe watching Toby.

He readies himself, and then lunges, an experimental push as deep as he can go, and Toby takes it, he takes it all and cries out again, breathless, wordless sounds of passion. Chris rolls them, slamming Toby's back into the mattress. Dimly, he makes out the thumping beat of the headboard hitting the wall, and then his vision whites out. When he opens his eyes, he's towering over Toby, fists clenched, wrists locked and arms secure on either side, with Toby's legs thrown up over his shoulders. There's no easy rhythm now, no slowness or delicacy. Toby raises up to meet Chris's every thrust, and Chris watches as though through someone else's eyes. He balances on one arm, pounding into Toby, and then he takes hold of Toby's hard dick. Stroking it, he circles his thumb in the wetness at the crown, running his fingers over its length, gripping firmly and giving damp, hot friction.

Toby's wild shout of pleasure energizes Chris and he grinds into Toby, gasping and growling, staring transfixed when Toby starts to come, his head whipping from side to side on the pillow, words of love on his lips. Toby clutches frantically at Chris's ass, his fingers grazing between Chris's cheeks and behind his balls. Chris comes, yelling Toby's name, shuddering and quivering his way through one of the best orgasms of his life.

Lying in bed after one of the greatest fucks he's ever had, Chris watches Toby sleeping. It feels ridiculous, but that's what he's doing. It's not even that Toby looks like an angel or some shit because he's flopped on his back, one leg stuck outside of the covers, and there's a sound that's damn close to a snore reverberating in the bedroom. Chris can't look away.

Where the fuck did this guy come from? Keller feels good inside when he's around Beecher, like he has a shot at being pure and whole again. The idea terrifies him, and he rationalizes that he's acting like some goddamn teenager mooning over Toby because the sex was fucking amazing.

He thinks about the past couple of weeks and how he's been taking care of Beecher, in all meanings of the phrase. He thinks about how Toby licks his lips when he's concentrating, and how he doesn't hesitate to slip his fingers up the sides or back of Chris's shirt, always craving skin to skin contact. Usually Keller avoids casual, intimate touches from men, but with Toby it's as if there aren't any boundaries that he isn't willing to cross.

~

They're stretched out on the couch, watching the Raiders clobber the Chiefs. Toby's body is wedged between the back of the sofa and Chris's body, one arm draped over Chris's waist.

"When was the last time you checked for mail?" Toby asks.

Chris lets go of Toby's hand. "Unh…"

Toby laughs. "That's what I thought."

"Why, you expecting something?" Chris squirms, pushing back against Toby's hips.

Smiling, Toby runs his hand down Chris's flank to his thigh. "Yes," he breathes into Chris's ear. "Special delivery."

"C.O.D.?" Chris's voice is husky.

"Something I have to sign for, so everyone knows the package is mine." Toby moves his hand down and fondles Chris's dick through his shorts.

The leather of the couch creaks as Chris flips over so that he's facing Toby. "Kinky postal worker? That's a new one for us." He smiles slowly and Toby thinks, watch out.

He smirks. That package is signed and sealed, and all his.  
~  
Chris dumps the stack of mail on the bureau and hands Toby a glass of juice. He shrugs at Toby's silent question. "You looked thirsty."

He watches Toby gulp it down, and then crooks an eyebrow at him. "Bills, magazines, more bills, and something for you," he says casually, separating the envelopes from the glossy magazines.

Toby grins. "I already got my delivery." He stretches, arching his back, pushing against the headboard. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up. Chris stares, so Toby stretches again, obviously aware of Chris's interest.

Finally, Chris rips his gaze away. "Haha. No, you really did get something." He flips through the stack and withdraws a large manila envelope. "Addressed to 'Mister Tobias Beecher'." He turns it over. "Says not to bend it. Weird. What's in there?" Chris looks at Toby. "Are you all ri-?"

The envelopes scatter as Chris rushes to catch Toby before he can hit the floor.

Chris manages to wrestle Toby to the bed. Toby pulls his knees to his chest as he falls to his side, curling up, his eyes filling with tears.

"What is it?" Chris hugs Toby tightly.

Toby whispers something that Chris can't quite make out. He leans in closer, his arm at an awkward angle. "What's wrong?" He places his hand hesitantly on Toby's shoulder, but there's no reaction, so he strokes down to Toby's elbow and then back up again. "Hey! Jesus Christ, you're scaring me."

"Mail," Toby says softly. "Always the mail."

They lie in silence for a few moments.

"Okay," Chris says, rubbing his hand down his face. "Okay."

Rolling off of the bed, he shakes the numbness from his arm. Keeping one eye on Toby, he sweeps up the strewn mail. He finds the envelope and returns with it. Toby's crying nearly silently, the tears puddling along his nose before soaking into the pillow.

Chris looks at the envelope in his hands. There's no return address but it was sent locally, and he checks Toby again before ripping open the flap. Inside is a high quality print of a child's yearbook picture. She has long braids and freckles on her nose, and there's an enigmatic half-smile on her face. Chris knows her in an instant. This is Kathy Rockwell.

He sighs. Toby echoes the sigh between sobs.

"Toby," Chris says gently.

Toby shakes his head, drawing up tighter, his muscles tense.

"Tobe… come on," Chris says, trying to get him to uncurl into an embrace.

"No," Toby says. His voice shakes.

The pain radiating off of Toby makes Chris's head hurt. What kind of sick fuck does something like this? Well, he knows the answer to that one. Chris shakes his head. Probably, Toby wants to be left alone, but Chris can't leave him. He reaches and takes hold of Toby's hand.

The sun sinks low in the sky and Chris's stomach grumbles, but he's not moving until Toby does.

~

Toby sobs quietly until his tears simply dry up and he chokes on a breath. The first year that the Rockwells sent him a picture of their daughter on the anniversary of her death, he lost control. He destroyed his living room, wailing with guilt, and barricaded himself inside his house for days, refusing to leave or talk with anyone. He dreads seeing the envelope in his mailbox every year, but he expects it. The shock and grief are no less muted, but he can survive without killing himself. Now he hurts himself, finding another way to punish himself for a debt that cannot be repaid.

He knows that Chris wants to hold him. Chris can soothe nearly every one of Toby's afflictions with his arms, his voice, his mouth. Chris distracts him, pulls him in warm and safe, and he makes Toby forget. That's why Toby hadn't been prepared for this year's picture. The anniversary date had passed unnoticed.

One last tear squeezes out of Toby's eye. He doesn't deserve to forget, and he sure as hell doesn't deserve Chris's love or understanding.

Toby lets go of Chris's hand to swipe at his runny nose. Chris leans over him to grab the box of tissues on the nightstand. When he gives one to Toby, he doesn't move away. Chris is a reassuring weight around him.

"It's all your fault," Chris murmurs into his ear.

Toby stiffens and his next breath feels like fire scorching his lungs. "What?"

"I said it's not your fault. It's gonna be all right." Chris curves around him, and Toby shivers.

"It's way too late for it to be okay," Toby says crossly. He's so tired.

"Didn't say it was okay. It'll never be okay, you know that." Chris's breath is warm against Toby's face. His arm encircles Toby's waist and he pulls until they're flush against each other.

"So how can it be all right?" Toby asks petulantly.

"You're gonna be all right," Chris replies, and Toby knows that's true.

Toby grasps at Chris's forearm. "Don't let go."

Chris presses a soft kiss to Toby's neck. "I'm never going to let go of you." He kisses the same spot again. "I love you."

~

Toby awakens early. He reaches out for Chris, but the sheets are cool. Frowning, Toby scrubs his hands over his face and struggles to sit up, the sheets knotted around his knees. Pale light streaks the sky. The bathroom door is ajar, the interior dark. Toby's skin creeps with goose bumps and he flicks on the bedside lamp. He dresses in silence, listening for sounds in the house. He's pulling on a hoodie sweatshirt as he goes down the stairs, and then he squints in disbelief at the clean foyer, coats hung neatly and his umbrella in the stand.

Toby's forehead wrinkles in thought. Chris's leather, his denim, and the long trench that Toby thinks is sexy usually all try and occupy one hook and fail. Inevitably, one or two coats slide to the floor to mix with the pile of sneakers and boots. In hard-soled slippers, he pads over to the door to the garage and peers inside. There's no motorcycle taking up space next to the tool bench.

Turning back, Toby stares in disbelief. The short hall and the foyer are spotless, but he can see both the kitchen and living room, and they're trashed, as if they've been robbed. There's a baseball bat in the hall closet, and he takes it and fumbles for his cell phone, realizing belatedly that he left it plugged in by his desk. He moves cautiously around the house, bat at the ready, but there's no one else there. The front and side doors are both locked from the inside, and this fact gives him pause, because Chris is missing.

Wheeling around, he re-enters the living room. Toby puts his back to the wall, takes a deep breath, and surveys the wreck. The house has definitely been burglarized: several items are missing and the couch is shredded, as though someone thought they stored jewels in the cushions. The chopper's gone, so Keller could have gone out and missed the robbery, although Toby questions where Keller was have going before dawn. Maybe he already knows about it and has gone to inform the police. The burglars probably cut the phone lines. Though, Chris has a cell phone, and he's never had qualms about using Toby's phone either. Toby looks around the room again. There's something about the space that doesn't make sense, and it takes a few more minutes until he realizes that the only things stolen belonged to Keller. How could someone know that?

Toby presses the palm of his hand to his head and squeezes his eyes shut. He walks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. There's a jug of water on the top shelf, a bottle of dark, sickly-looking orange juice on the door, and something wrapped in foil at the back that he suspects is the root of the odor escaping the fridge. He closes the door. The burglars stole food from them. Toby shakes his head slowly.

After that he runs from room to room, and all of Keller's stuff is gone, stolen, missing, taken, Toby can't tell. Not only have his belongings disappeared, but the feeling of him is gone, too, and Toby can't even make out his scent on the bed sheets and pillows. Something gritty on the kitchen counter scratches his hands, but he doesn't care; it's too fantastic, and he braces against the sink, bile rising into his throat.

Wiping his mouth with a paper towel, he opens the cupboard to toss it into the wastebasket and it's then that he sees the glass neck of a brown bottle sticking out of the trashcan. He sucks in one wild breath after another, because it's not possible – he hasn't had a drink in years, let alone a whole bottle. Toby grabs the corner of the plastic bag and pulls, and what looks to be a week's worth of garbage falls onto his shoes. The bottle rolls to a stop at the baseboards and Toby reads the label out loud: Virgil's Root Beer.

He laughs loudly. The noise travels around the kitchen and comes back to his ears as shocky and terrified.

The house is a wreck, Chris is gone, and it becomes a mantra. Chris is gone. Gone.

Kicking the garbage off of his slippers, Toby finds the kitchen phone and starts to dial 9-1-1 before realizing that there's no dial tone. The receiver's dead.

Hurrying up the stairs, the toe of Toby's slipper catches on the lip of a step and he faceplants on the hallway rug, his knees knocking against the stairs soundly.

"Fuccccck," he groans, working to get one arm up from between the floor and his stomach. Gingerly, he moves his fingers around his nose, cheeks and mouth. He feels something sticky, and when he pulls his hand away, there's blood from a split lip. His body aches as he pushes himself to his feet. The phone is still his first priority. As if on cue, Toby hears it start to trill from a room away. Standing unsteadily, he wobbles as the head rush forces him to close his eyes. His lip throbs. He wipes a bloodied hand down the front of his shirt. Breathing through his mouth, he shuffles down the hall, but he's not moving fast enough to catch the call.

Flipping it open, he looks at the screen. It's flashing the low battery signal, which is strange, since it's been plugged in all night.

Sitting down in his desk chair, he hits redial and waits.

"Toby!" comes the worried cry.

"Hi, Mom," he says tiredly. The right side of his face feels as though it's swelling.

"Where have you been? I've been calling the house and it rings and rings. This is the first time I was able to leave a voicemail. Earlier it said that your mailbox was full." She takes a deep breath. "I thought we agreed that if you went out of town, you would have the courtesy to let us know."

"I didn't go out of town." Toby says. He slumps against the back of the chair. "My battery's low and we might get cut off, so listen. Our house was robbed, the phone lines cut, and Chris is missing. Can you call the cops for me?"

"Oh my god! Are you all right?" Victoria's voice shakes.

"Yeah, I think so, but listen, call the cops, okay? And tell them about Chris." The receiver beeps. "Gonna lose you."

"I'll call right away, Toby, but… who's Chris?"

The surface of the desk seems to fall away from Toby, growing smaller in the distance. He squints in confusion.

"Unh, Chris. My husband! Remember now? He's gone, all his stuff's gone, and I need you to call the pol-" The phone dies and Toby cuts himself off.

Methodically, he plugs the phone back in, but there's no corresponding chirrup, and he pulls on the thin black cord. The plug pops out from behind the lamp, and Toby looks at it, puzzled. He'd swear that he asked Chris to double-check the charger. Get a grip, Toby thinks. Suddenly, he's incredibly thirsty, and the contents of his fridge flash through his mind. The OJ's out, but the spring water will taste wonderful.

He's halfway through the bottle when EMTs break through the front door, and two uniforms follow, circling him, hands out and open and making placating noises. Toby eyes them both, and then tries to imagine the picture he presents – a man in sweats and a bloody shirt standing in a trashed kitchen, messily drinking water straight from the container.

"It's okay, guys, I live here," he says, putting the water down on the counter. "It's my house."

But what comes out of his mouth isn't recognizable as words, and when he tries again, the police officers move quickly, grabbing Toby and wrestling him down to the floor. He's cuffed and shoved in the back of an ambulance, and he still can't find the translator between his brain and voice. He yells in frustration, and the guy on the side of the gurney gives Toby a shot that knocks him down into darkness.

~

Angus feels silly standing on Toby's front porch since usually he walks right in. He knocks on the door, lightly at first, and then he pounds on the frame with the heel of his hand. He should just use his key, but he hesitates, remembering the way that Toby kept calling out for Chris at the hospital. He doesn't want to stumble in on some strange man in Toby's house, even if he's there with permission. So he knocks. No one answers. Peering through the window on the side of the house, he sees that the living room's in shambles. For a brief moment, it seems as though his key won't work, but then the lock clicks open and he's inside.

The stench of ripe, week-old garbage assaults him first. Sure enough, in the kitchen, he finds a bag stuffed full, something orange dripping onto the floor at its base. He coughs, turning his head away, and then shrugs out of his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. Once the trash is out on the curb, Angus opens the windows in the kitchen and pushes back the curtains. He squints in disbelief at the sink full of dishes, since Toby's an outspoken proponent of dishwashers, and gingerly moves plates around until he can stopper the sink. Adding dish detergent, he turns on the hot water faucet. The counters are covered in something grainy, like sugar, and he sighs. The place needs a thorough scrubbing. It's obvious that no one's been there taking care of Toby, especially not some guy named Chris.

Opening the pantry door and fumbling for the stack of dishtowels, something crunches under Angus's feet. Kneeling down, he finds a shattered light bulb that had never been swept up. His mouth twists. Now he'll have to remove his shoes or track glass around the house. Toeing off his loafers, he turns off the faucet and ventures into the dining room. The large rectangle of mahogany that Toby inherited is covered in crumbs and two of the chairs are tipped over as though someone was in a hurry to leave.

Dreading it, Angus moves into the living room, where all of the lights are blazing, and a pile of shredded newspapers dominates the middle of the floor. Stacks of books are pulled from the shelves. Angus could have sworn that Toby owned a DVD player, but its usual spot is empty. The bedroom is even worse, with drawers pulled out randomly, clothing in heaps, and the bed sheets hopelessly tangled. The entire room smells stale. The master bathroom is wrecked, with the shower curtain held up by only a few rings. What appears to be toothpaste is smeared across the mirror, and the double sink is backed up, scuzz floating on top of the water. He notices scratch marks near the doorknob, and bends down for a closer look. The marks aren't so much scratches as gouges, as though someone was trying to force their way out. Shaking his head in confusion, Angus enters the walk-in closet, finding the rug torn up, and the floorboard safe exposed.

"Fuck!" Angus swears.

A loud rumbling noise distracts him, and then he swears again. In stocking feet, he hurries downstairs, slipping as he takes the last corner too quickly and sliding on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. Without bothering to put his shoes on, he races out to the curb and swears again in frustration. "Goddamn it!" The garbage truck is at least three blocks away, and there's no way he can catch up with it now. Regaining his breath, he walks back to the house in defeat. He reaches for the phone, then stops, covers his hand with the corner of his shirt, and picks it up. As he suspected, the line's dead. He searches his jacket for his cell phone. He speaks into the microphone. "Call Dad."

It's obvious what happened here. Toby's been robbed, and possibly kept prisoner, or as a hostage. The thieves must have overpowered him, drugged him and locked him in the bathroom, torturing him until he gave them the combination to the safe. Angus isn't even sure what Toby keeps in his safe, but their Dad will know. Maybe Toby learned one of their names. Chris.

~

The crime scene tech takes a look at Toby's house, opens his mouth and then snaps it shut when he sees Harrison Beecher glowering at him.

"I can't promise anything," he says feebly. "This place has been severely compromised."

Harrison steps closer to the man. "So do your best," he says softly. "I'll be outside." He taps a number into his cell phone. "Julia, good afternoon. Harrison Beecher here. I'd like to speak with Commissioner Hurston, is he in?"

He levels a stern look at the tech one more time before letting himself out the side door.

~

Toby spent two days in isolation at the hospital, and his doctor wanted him to take sleeping pills, which is obviously what he needed since his dreams are so goddamned interesting. Dr. Peeke insisted that Toby's had a nervous breakdown, that the rage he's feeling is his body's way of telling him to rest, to relax. Toby snorts. The rage feels good sitting heavy and fierce inside of him. He doesn't want to get rid of the fury. He wants to use it.

Both Peeke and Toby's family wanted him in the hospital for another week, under observation. Toby refused, politely at first, and then loudly, and finally he threatened to sue for being held against his will.

"Mr. Beecher, we don't know what all of the side effects of these unknown drugs may have done to you!" Dr. Peeke protested. "They could still be in your system. It's dangerous for you to leave the hospital."

"What did your tests say about my health?" Toby chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Dr. Peeke rubbed his hand across his forehead.

Toby waited.

"As a horse," Peeke conceded.

Nodding, Toby finished tying his shoes, and then checked himself out.

~

A different tech unpacks a paper bag. "We didn't find much," she says, her eyebrows drawing together in frustration. She puts three small plastic bags on the table. "The substance on the counters in the kitchen was sugar. We recovered a smudged print from the faucet, but couldn't match it to more than three points, meaning there are several hundred thousand possibilities." She fingers one of the bags. "This is a hair we found in the bathroom sink, but it belongs to you, Mr. Beecher," she says, nodding her head in his direction.

In the interrogation room, Toby's seated next to his dad, flanked by his brother in the rear, and he's having a difficult time understanding why they're here. He has to leave, he has answers to uncover. He knows that they wouldn't find anything in their – no, his house. Keller was careful. Keller. Toby shakes his head.

"Son, are you all right?" Harrison's face creases into a frown. "Do you remember something?"

Toby wants to grab his father by the shoulders and shake him. He's being too stubborn in his over-protectiveness, and he won't listen when Toby insists that he wasn't held hostage by crazed thieves who kept him locked in the bathroom while they partied the night away with the two or three thousand kept in his lockbox.

"No," Toby grits out. "Please continue."

"There's little else," she says, shrugging. "Your father ordered a full blood work up, which means we looked for things that aren't usually included. The findings match the tox screen that you had done in the hospital." She studies the paper. "Ecstasy, PCP, and something else that both labs are having trouble determining." Unfolding a paper, she lays it flat on the table. "Here," she points. "The fusion is clumsy, amateurish, and it bears resemblance to a couple of government designer drugs that, well," she hesitates. "They're being researched in conjunction with mind control."

Angus gasps, Harrison's fist thumps the table, and Toby dredges up what he hopes is an appropriate horrified grimace. He's seething inside, all of his wounds torn open and he doesn't care about any of this. He wants out. He has work to do. Chris gave him everything and ripped it away. Why? Why would he do that?

"Are you mixed up in something, Toby?" Angus asks quietly.

The tech stares at the table.

"Something like what, Angus?" Toby returns the question, a sardonic smile on his lips.

Angus sounds sad. "Blackmail comes to mind. Drugs. Money. Are you drinking again?" His voice wavers.

Toby stands suddenly, pushing his chair back from the table with a loud screech of metal. He faces off with Angus. "You're an asshole."

Harrison rises, laying a restraining hand on Toby's shoulder. He nods at the tech. "Thank you for your time."

Toby lets his dad usher him outside of the room, down the hallways of the precinct, and into the parking lot. He draws the line at hopping into the backseat of the town car like a recalcitrant child.

"I'll walk," he says, avoiding Angus's eyes.

His dad looks at him helplessly. "We'll figure it out, Toby. Be patient."

"Yeah," Toby grunts. "I'm gonna catch a meeting."

"But," Angus starts to say, and then changes his mind. "Don't forget to get that prescription filled."

Toby's never felt so angry before, and his fury is aimed at everyone. "I'm not taking any more fucking pills!"

"You don't have a choice!" Angus snaps.

The turbulence inside Toby's head increases in motion and sound. "Go fuck yourself," he says calmly, turning around and walking in the other direction. He hears Angus shouting his name, but he doesn't stop moving.

~

The house is quiet and clean. Victoria's housekeeper has been there, and Toby knows it's just in case a cache of liquor bottles falls out of the closet. He knows that his mother wants to trust him. They all do, but they're so used to his fuckups that there are contingency plans in place. It's not the first time that she's had his place cleaned, but it is the first time in over two years.

Toby fumes. He hopes that Clara didn't do a very good job, because after the EMTs and police, the forensics team, his dad, brother and mother, and accompanying maid service, there's probably very little left for him to find. But he's going to try. Chris is real, and Toby's going to prove it.

He can hardly stand to lie in the bed, and there's no way he's going to be comfortable in it tonight. He lies on his back, hands clenched into fists at his sides, staring up at the ceiling, enraged. He wants Keller's blood on his hands. He's nobody's bitch.

~

Toby's not surprised when he wakes up in the Hole. He has been acting out a lot lately. He giggles. Keller's description was apt: a dank cave of a room reeking of insanity. There's a single bulb for light and the floor is filthy with muck. Toby's bare skin is covered with goosebumps. The metal door looks intimidating, as though it would be easy to lock someone away and forget about them.

Not that he deserves to be remembered.

He suppresses a laugh, rolling onto his back and tucking his arms behind his head. It's sort of relaxing, maybe not the house on the beach he'd imagined, but quiet. Mostly quiet, he amends. The light bulb whistles, or maybe it crackles. There's no discernable pattern, though Toby tries to find one. The noises are spaced so that he's always waiting for the next one.

He discovers that the bucket can't hold his weight.

Rubbing his sore arm, Toby leans against the far wall, facing the door, and closes his eyes. Between the quiet hisses from the light bulb and the occasional whisper from the ceiling, he's not interested in whatever this particular hallucination has to offer.

He wonders if he's having a stroke.

The sound of metal on metal forces his eyes open. A tray crashes into the room at an angle and overturns on the floor, the carton of juice bouncing harmlessly against the wall.

The light bulb pops again and the dark ceiling makes a sound like a flock of starlings overhead.

After what feels like days have passed, the slide window on the door opens and closes in a quick motion, and Toby realizes that only a couple of hours have elapsed since he woke up on the damp floor.

He drags his knees up to his chest and holds them there, conserving body heat. No wonder inmates are wild when they come back from the Hole. He thinks about the fervent way that Keller fucked him after SORT broke up the brawl in the cafeteria, and he shivers, remembering a hand on his hip, then on his throat, and the other warm around his cock.

No, that's not right. Toby huddles over, his head resting on his forearms. It's here that he doesn't belong. Those dreams, they weren't real. He grins at his thighs. Not real, all in his twisted mind, he's not even here. Not really. He giggles.

Dr Peeke, Toby's family, and the pills all try to convince him that Keller's not going to be found because he never existed, but Toby knows better. He doesn't care if the showdown happens in Oz or at home, but Toby's going to find Chris Keller. It's all he's been thinking about for the past few days.

Something light brushes across his foot and he shakes it off automatically, staring in horror at a darker smudge on the ground.

It's a dark brown feather, curved, a tuft of down on the quill.

Toby yells until he's hoarse and flops back down in the corner farthest from the feather, his back and arms clammy with sweat.

If this is what a brain tumor is like, he'd like to off himself now.

Both the light bulb and the ceiling stay quiet as Toby's pulse pounds, somehow magnified inside his head.

He drifts into a light doze, finally, and dreams that he's looking into Oz from the outside from an aerial view. He wants to find Keller, but he can't find the door. Another one ends with everything in Oz burning up and floating down onto him as ashes. The sky burns an angry orange, and it's unsurprising when the horizon reverses itself, the sea of flame under his feet.

~

The sun's hot and bright on his face when he wakes up flat on his back in his own bed in what he sincerely hopes is his real life. The warmth feels wonderful after the chill of the Hole. He lounges contentedly until his shoulders prickle with sweat, and then he's ready to get up. He's going to have a busy day today, starting immediately after a long shower in a bird-free zone.

He stands next to the side of the bed, drying off, his body loose and relaxed from the hot shower. Looking down, he sees the toe of his sock that's fallen between the bed and the night table. When he reaches down to pull it up, he finds his proof.

Images of that night flash through his mind: the club, the lights and balloons, how Chris growled when he licked the skin of Toby's neck, kissing him hard as they stood on the front porch, and most strikingly, the delight on Keller's face when Toby sat astride him.

He can hear it in his mind now, the dull, repetitive thump of the headboard on the bedroom wall. The sound was easy to block out when Keller was gripping Toby tightly and crushing their mouths together.

Scrambling down under the bed, Toby cranes his neck, trying to get a better view of the thin crack crawling its way up the wall behind the bedpost. It's definitely a crack, and he follows the line with his eyes. The lamp shines a perfect ray of light into the space between the wall and the thickest part of the post, and Toby hits his head on the box spring in his effort to wriggle back. Standing, he yanks the nightstand away from the bed, and grabs hold of the heavy bedframe and pulls. There's a dent the size of a child's fist in the wall.

Vaguely, Toby remembers using the headboard as leverage as he rocked against Chris, and now he knows that his strength was probably fueled by the PCP he'd unknowingly ingested. Keller had still handled him, which Toby found impressive, even as he berated himself for thinking that about a man who had done his level best to completely assfuck him.

For his family's sake, he'd pretended that he was delirious when he kept asking for Chris, and the results from the tox screens backed his story. He kept the truth close, and now he can take what's in front of his eyes and use it as proof that it all happened.

He calls his mother first, and to his horror he starts to cry when she asks him what's wrong. She can always hear it in his voice. Sniffling loudly, he explains that he knows it sounds crazy, but he has proof that Chris exists. He announces that he's not going to rest until he finds him, and asks if he could please speak with Dad, because he has to quit the firm.

Harrison keeps Toby on the line for what feels like an hour, but it's a good conversation. He listens as Toby sketches out his plans for tracking down Keller. Eventually Toby shivers, realizing that he's still naked, and it's then that he hears a car pulling into the driveway. He peers out of the window, and then speaks into the phone. "Dad… why is Mom here?"

~

The program that his parents chose is on the cutting edge of psychiatry, although their methods are rather New Age. The staff uses positive phrases he's heard in AA a billion times, delicately skirting any embarrassment for either party by using ambiguous language. It's still close to staying at a health spa, with four-star dining and an on-call masseuse who arrives with a matching orderly. Toby's on the minimum-security ward, where his fellow crazies appear normal when they pass each other in the halls. He figures out quickly enough that if he says the right things, they leave him alone, only expecting attendance at individual therapy sessions and group counseling. He plays the woeful victim desperate to conquer the demons inside his head. It's not much of a stretch.

He's been palming his meds for the last two months. Admittedly, that first month, he needed the sleep. It had been glorious to have refreshing, dreamless sleep, free from prisons, snakes, and strange lights. He hadn't even dreamed of Chris. He was tempted to continue taking the pills in order to enjoy that kind of rest every night. But they also made him loopy during the day, spacing out in front of the television for hours, or sitting through two separate group sessions with no memory of either one.

Plus, and most importantly, when he would wake after the twelve or fourteen hours of sleep he was getting, he had doubts. Maybe the dent was already there. Maybe the crack came from natural wear and tear on an old house. As hard as it was to admit, he had been crushingly lonely.

So he had to stop taking the pills. Maybe his parents are right and he needs a rest. It's quiet enough here. Anything's better than the Hole.

"How are you feeling today, Toby?" Dr. Reed asks.

Toby shrugs noncommittally. "All right," he replies. They always expect a verbal reply.

"Better or worse than yesterday?" Reed probes.

Toby pretends to think it over. "Better, I guess," he says.

"Do you think that's related to the fact that you're returning home in a week?"

"Yeah, I think so," Toby says hesitantly. "I mean, I have a lot of things waiting for me there. It will be nice to be in the… in my house again. I miss it," he says fondly, letting a note of yearning into his voice.

Christ, does he ever. Even his routine is better than this high-end rest home. He's positive that his colleagues have been told that he's recouping from extreme exhaustion.

She nods, tucking a few strands of blonde hair behind her ear. "Tell me something that you realized about your fantasy after you began your road to recovery." That's what they call it here, his fantasy, not a delusion or a psychotic break from reality.

Toby wrinkles his forehead as if he's having deep thoughts. There's no reason to tell the truth, but he's leaving in a week, so there's no real reason that he can't. "There was one thing that I…" He looks shyly at Dr. Reed.

"Go ahead," she encourages him, laying the pencil back down on the desk blotter.

"Well, I think it's telling, because we talked about how I'd put myself into voluntary isolation. And part of my delusion-" He stresses the word just to see her controlled wince. "Was that Chris rarely touched anything. I was so alone that I dreamed up an imaginary friend, and I transferred my fear of intimacy to him, so that he couldn't touch anyone or anything, either." Toby's repeating back to her what she'd said at the end of their last session, and she appears to be buying it, nodding her head.

He has no idea how Keller managed to wipe down the entire house before leaving, and once again he bitterly admires the man's dedication to the façade. Keller's insistence that Toby drink his milk, the water, and the juice. Toby took so much at face value at first, believing it to be a dream. There was the Gatorade that Chris bought but rarely drank, leaving open containers from which Toby helped himself. How Chris always seemed to know exactly where he'd be, like when he picked him up at the AA meeting. Keller's stuff all mixed up with his, knowing Toby's favorite foods, how they fit snugly on the motorcycle as though they'd picked it out together. He closes his eyes briefly. The thing he can't understand is why he was chosen, and what did Toby ever do to Keller?

He never breathed a word about the hallucinations he had about Oz. They weren't real, he was pretty sure of that, and he couldn't help it if his brain cast Keller in the role of protector. It was easily explained, though he sometimes wondered about their linear nature that contradicted the nonsensical twists of dreams.

"What prompted your decision to rid yourself of the fantasy and come back to your normal life?" Her eyes flick to the clock, and Toby knows she's thinking about the cigarette she'll suck down in the ten minutes between sessions. She's always spraying air freshener when he knocks on the door for his appointment.

"I couldn't take it anymore," Toby says, and mentally he cringes when she refocuses on him. He may have whined too much. "I mean, it was overwhelming, and I realized that I needed to go somewhere else for a while, so that I could regroup and take everything one day at a time." He's relieved when she nods absently at his rote answer.

"One more, Toby, and you can consider this to be your exit interview," Reed says, smiling gently as if he's leaving the company, not the nuthouse.

"Okay," Toby says, leaning forward, hands clasped, and widening his eyes to portray interest.

"Who are you going to rely on now for your emotional support?" She's rolling the pencil again, this time from the desk's surface onto the edge of the desk calendar and back.

"My family," Toby answers instantly and automatically. "I'll make sure that I see them more often."

Reed nods, remaining quiet.

"And…" Toby starts, and then stops. Licking his lips, he tries again. "And myself," he whispers. "I've learned that I need to trust myself more. I'm a strong person and I need to rely on that strength more." He smiles sincerely.

Jesus, he deserves an Oscar for this performance. He can't wait to escape from this overly insulated nuthouse and track down the very real Mr. Christopher Keller.

~

Sitting at the single folding chair next to the card table in his room, Keller stares at the certified check in his hand, fingering the paper. It's made out to him, and the amount is more than what he needs to establish himself in Vegas. There's nothing tying him here. Nothing. Whatever happened with Beecher is in the past, and there's no sense in dwelling on it. What they had, whatever they experienced together, that was all part of a job, the mindfuck, and the best part is that it's over. Keller's free to move on with his life, and he's a good deal richer for it.

Keller likes women. That fact is backed up by two marriages. It's not that he's old-fashioned, since he's gotten hitched and divorced twice. He likes men too, but not for the long haul. A quick fuck here or there, at most a couple of months, and then he slides back into a wet pussy and remembers how much he loves women. His Catholic upbringing serves him best when he needs it, though mostly it's brushed aside. The idea that he's fallen for a fucking white-collar murdering yuppie is preposterous. He snorts.

He gulps down a mouthful of whiskey, enjoying the hot burn of the liquor in his throat.

Lou told him not to worry about the specifics, that he was going to take care of the first imprint. Chris doesn't know how he did it, but somewhere between work and home, Toby got a huge dose of something, probably whatever had been in those paper packets. When Chris met Toby outside later that night, after the thunderstorm, Beecher was spaced out, breathing rapidly even as his glassy gaze wandered around aimlessly.

He'd felt like a jackass reciting the lines that Lou had given him.

"Punish yourself. Create your own prison." He'd repeated it nine or ten times, until Beecher nodded distractedly, one foot ankle-deep in a puddle.

Chris had rolled his eyes at Lou when he first read the scribbled sentence. "And you think this is the key." Derision was clear in his voice.

"I'm sure of it," Lou said calmly.

Keller recognized the look on Lou's face. A plan had come together, and the stress had disappeared.

Lou continued. "The beauty of this plan is that he does all of the work himself. It'll be a smooth ride down for him, helped along by that." He pointed at the packets. "The suggestion will unravel all of his hidden fears, the darkest corners of his subconscious, and he'll be lost in a prison of his own making. It will be a thousand times worse than anything I could cook up myself, including breaking his bones. Thanks to you."

Chris takes another gulp of whiskey and wonders if there's a way to make this right. He'd already called Beecher's house from a pay phone uptown, and the answering service informed him that Mister Beecher was on vacation.

Looks like the plan went off without a hitch. Chris had been proud that Toby didn't break right away. Even now, he wonders where they've stashed Toby, and exactly what kind of vacation he's on.

What would Toby want him to do? Chris already knows the answer to that one. He has to confess.

~

His mother arranged for someone to water the lawn and pick up his mail, and there's a mess of envelopes and magazines on the dining room table. Toby avoids looking into the kitchen. It's not fair that Keller pulled his performing act in the house. Now Toby imagines Chris everywhere he looks, and fuck, the illusions are alluring.

The living room is spotless and dust-free. Sitting on the sofa, Toby stares into space for a while. When he gets hungry, he pulls his phone out from his pocket and starts to dial for pizza, and then snaps it shut. He's acting like a wuss. Standing, he ventures into the kitchen. Everything looks normal, but that's not the best standard of judgment. The fridge and freezer have been cleaned and stocked, and he pulls out a box of chicken nuggets, flicking on the oven to preheat.

Sitting down at the dining room table, Toby picks up the magazines and thumbs through them indifferently. He doesn't give a shit about all of the newspapers piled against the wall. The mail is more absorbing, and he notes that his bills have been opened and paid. There's another thin stack of envelopes that looks like personal mail, and it's a show of how pathetic he is: a mimeographed copy of the community center's newsletter, a cutesy postcard depicting a grinning monkey reminding him to get his teeth cleaned, and finally, an envelope from the ICU over at Memorial where he volunteers. Inside he finds two sheets of construction paper liberally scribbled with crayon, and a tiny handwritten note from one of the nurses.

_Kayla drew a picture of you playing basketball. She said that she hasn't laughed so much since you told the story about the basketball game. She says thank you._

Not so pathetic, then.

The oven appears to be rebelling after sitting dormant for three months and still has not preheated. Toby uses the time to take the newspapers out to the recycling bin. Cramming them into the container, he shoves the lid down. Standing, he brushes his hands off on his jeans. He eyes the lawn critically, but it looks good, with brightly colored phlox, verbena and asters replacing the summer flowers.

There are weeds around the mailbox, though, and Toby frowns as he moves closer. It's not weeds at all, but rather a tangle of bare raspberry bushes that have cropped up around the post. The dirt is freshly overturned, and the flag on the box is lifted halfway. Toby opens the flap and finds a white envelope with only his name on it, no return address or stamp.

A butterfly lands on his hand. For one harsh, horrible moment, he thinks that he's hallucinating again.

Toby blinks at it, but it sits calmly and rustles its wings. He thinks that if it flies away before he counts to ten, he'll open the envelope; if not, he'll throw it in the trash. He stares at it until it flies away on its own accord, and then picks up the envelope and takes it inside.

He eats dinner quickly, standing over the kitchen sink. Toby rinses the plate and glass, and then puts them on the dish drainer. He pulls the envelope out of his pocket, turning it over to study the seal. He knows that whatever's inside is related to Keller, that it's either from or about him. Keller's continuing to taunt Toby even after his disappearance. Toby gulps back the anger and tears open the envelope, shaking the contents out over the island.

Pieces of paper float down onto the marble-top, and at first glance, they look like pieces of a receipt. Toby moves them around the counter and after only a few sections, he reveals a certified check made out to Chris Keller in the amount of eight thousand dollars. Holy shit. Toby checks the envelope again. There's a square of paper taped to the inside, and he rips it out. It's a standard size business card and there's a Las Vegas address scrawled on one side. His legs are weak, and he slumps onto his elbows, using the kitchen island to support his weight. He thought he'd have to track Keller down, and he can't figure out why Chris sent him the card. Except he couldn't have mailed it, because there wasn't a postage stamp.

Scooping up the scraps of paper, Toby wanders into the living room and sits down on the couch. He rearranges the pieces on the coffee table and stares at them. He'd been gung-ho about chasing Chris down, demanding answers, and hurting him, somehow. It's not that the anger has deserted him, no, he still wants to beat the shit out of Keller. The contents of this envelope, though – this is proof of something else.

Closing his eyes, Toby thinks about Kathy Rockwell. The circumstances under which Keller left have to lead back to her somehow. Why else would Chris choose that particular night to bail? Toby's instincts as a lawyer reflexively reject coincidences. Somehow Keller's actions relate to the Rockwells, although Toby can't discern the exact connection. If Keller is actually related to Kathy, why the elaborate mindfuck? Why not just snap his neck and be done with it? And how would eight grand figure into that equation? The torn-up check is more than Keller rejecting a payment.

Toby's eyes pop open. Someone paid Keller to play this sadistic game with him. So Keller's still fucked up, but he didn't choose his target randomly, and in a way that's a relief. Toby muses about how Keller finished the job but didn't take the financial reward. It's sickeningly easy to remember the seemingly true affection and love shining from Chris's eyes, and Toby shakes his head to rid himself of the image. It was all an act, Keller was playing a part, and there's no possible way that he could have meant any of it.

He thinks about Kathy's parents. They can't forgive him, so how can Chris? It doesn't even make sense that Keller would want to see him again. Why would he want to? It doesn't matter. Keller's obviously not trustworthy. He faked the whole thing, and it's likely that he faked the feelings, too. Toby pauses. Keller confessed. The check and the address are an apology. But it's too hard to tell if it's the truth, because Toby has no idea who he knew, and if it was really Chris, or if it was all lies.

He hates that he was so trusting. His loneliness certainly bred vulnerability, and he allowed himself to feel good and pure when he was with Chris. He felt hopeful anticipating a happier life. He wants to punch himself in the face for accepting Keller without qualms or a background check. He'd been more than happy to let the lines between what he thought was a dream and real life blur along the edges. In whatever reality he'd been in, Toby had gladly convinced himself that Chris was the best thing he had. He can't accept that Chris fabricated everything, and the bits of paper on the coffee table back up the theory. Obviously Keller hadn't been able to walk away.

Toby wants to go to the address on the card. He wants to find Keller and kiss him and hurt him; he wants to jerk him off and suck him and shove a shank into his guts all at the same time, because Toby wasn't faking any of it. Before, when he figured that he wouldn't ever see Keller again without the help of a private investigator, all he felt was fury. Now, staring at the bits and pieces on the coffee table, he wants to believe that it's another mindfuck. It would be fitting, and he's definitely not going to be able to trust in anything that Keller says or does.

Toby's lips twist into a wry smile. It seems as though he's already made his choice. He's not even upset with himself. He and Keller are both bastards. Maybe it could work.

If civilization ended and the sun went dark and they were the last two men on Earth.

~

Keller lives in a large apartment complex fifteen minutes from the Strip. The grounds are studded with palm trees and paths paved with wood chips. Toby studies the first floor of a two-storey stucco building. It's not where he expects Keller to live, not that he would know anything about Chris's tastes. Gauzy pink curtains, pulled back with ties, frame the windows. Toby can see directly inside to the living room. Wind chimes affixed to the roof of the patio tinkle in the breeze and suddenly Toby feels sad. He's exhausted from the flight, the journey, his life. No one's home, and there's no target upon which to unleash the fury that he's keeping close to his heart.

It's late afternoon, but the sky has been overcast all day. A strong, cool wind rustles the leaves of the trees. There's a blue metal bench under the shade of a few palms, and Toby sits down to wait.

~

Chris guns his bike through a yellow light and checks his mirrors. Last thing he needs is some fucking traffic cop looking to jam him up. He worked a double shift and he wants to get home before Angie does, otherwise she'll have worked herself up waiting for him. She's been riding his ass about how they never go away together. Where the fuck does she want to go? They're in one of the best cities in the world, and it's not like he can take time off whenever he wants. Of course the real reason is because he doesn't want to take the chance that Toby might show up while they're gone.

He's beginning to think that Toby will never come. Maybe he underestimated the impact of ripping up that check. Maybe Beecher doesn't have the stones. It's not a possibility that Toby didn't love every second of having Chris around. He thinks about another way to show Toby how sorry he is, and he knows it's going to have to be something flashy. Toby lives a solitary life, but their time together proved that Toby's human, he craves companionship. He'll want to be pursued, especially after what Chris had done to him. Chris expects to grovel, big time. After that, Toby will come around.

He chains the motorcycle up in the parking lot, wishing he could wheel it onto the grounds so he can keep a closer eye on it. The complex where Angie lives doesn't have enough security for his liking. Chris knows that people are going to take what they can, whenever they can. It's how he's been living life for the past two decades. He doesn't see Angie's hatchback parked anywhere, so things are looking up. They're looking fucking great when he rounds the corner and spots Beecher camped out across from the apartment. Fuck, he looks good, leaning back on the bench, his legs stretched out and his face lifted to the sun. Chris wants to crawl onto Toby's lap, grinding down on him while kissing him everywhere he can reach. He grins. He knew it, he knew Toby would show. Thank Christ.

~

Toby opens his eyes when a shadow falls across his face. He's up and off of the bench quickly, powered by a surge of blazing hatred and disgust. Keller looks as though he wants to grab Toby and kiss him. Toby throws his fist forward, catching Chris with a bone rattling punch across the jaw, knocking Keller's head to the side. He takes a step back and Toby follows aggressively, his left arm already pushing out, landing a solid thump to the middle of Chris's chest.

Chris's mouth falls open in a near comical expression as surprise lights up his eyes. Toby lowers his head and growls, feeling even more wrathful. Keller couldn't possibly believe that time apart means all has been forgiven. He clocks Keller in the face again. Chris tackles Toby, and they fall to the ground. Toby fights against the hold pinning his arms to his sides. He wheezes with disappointment when Keller uses his legs to trap Toby completely, and Toby finds that he can hardly move. He's lying on top of Chris, struggling against him. He risks a look at Keller's face and freezes when he sees Chris's expression. Eyes hooded and lips parted, Keller looks as though he's ready for a different kind of action. Then Chris's eyes clear and his mouth closes. He doesn't let Toby go, even though the initial rush of adrenaline is gone. Toby's whole body feels weak. They lie on the ground until Toby struggles in a different way, trying to sit up, and he's not dwelling on what it means that Keller can tell the difference.

Keller opens his arms and Toby breaks free, rolling away and sitting up with his back against the seat of the bench. Chris stays sprawled on the ground, his chest heaving. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Toby flashes to the look on Chris's face when Toby's cock stretched his mouth open for the first time in the kitchen. He shudders, wanting that again so desperately that he's terrified and disgusted with himself. How can he ever trust Chris again? He can't. But he wants to. He wants to so much.

Keller sits up and brushes dirt off of his pants. "Beecher," he says.

"Yeah?" Toby snarls.

"Look, I know you aren't gonna believe me, but. Listen. I'm sorry for what I did." There's a short pause. "For what I did to you." Chris fidgets, his fingers playing with a thread on the hem of his shirt.

"Sorry?" Toby parrots incredulously. He waits until Chris meets his gaze, and then asks, dryly, "Promise you'll never do it again?"

"Toby, I'm serious," Chris says. If only Toby didn't know what a fucking good actor Keller is, because he wants to believe the beautiful lies.

"I'm sure," Toby replies, scowling. He clears his throat, estimating the distance between them in his head. He'll have to catch Keller off-guard this time.

"Look, I'll do anything, anything you want. You tell me what I can do to make it up to you, and I'll do it. Anything." The earnest look on Chris's face makes Toby's stomach roil.

Toby shrugs. He can't think of any way that the situation can be put to rights, let alone something Keller can do to make amends. It doesn't even matter, because they don't even live on the same side of the country anymore. It would help if they were in the same city. He doesn't realize that he's said this out loud until Chris nods, agreeing, and says, "I'll move back next week."

Toby finally notices that Chris is wearing a uniform with the insignia for Bellagio on the shirt pocket, creased black dress pants and a gold band on his left ring finger. His heart pounds faster.

"You're married?" Toby growls. The pink curtains in the apartment windows suddenly make sense.

"I'm not married," Chris replies.

"You look married," Toby snaps. He's groping in his pocket for his keys. This is too much, he can't fucking believe it. It's one more thing, one more reason not to trust a word out of Keller's mouth. Shit, goddamnit and fuck. It's time to get back to real life and leave this dumbfuck behind, preferably writhing in pain in the dirt.

"Yeah, well, I'm not," Chris says. He stands up, shaking wood chips off of his clothes. "I'm a dealer," he says, and then clarifies. "A blackjack dealer." He shrugs. "Easier to get a job when HR thinks you got someone depending on you."

Toby scrambles to his feet. Fuck if he'll sit at Chris's feet and gaze upwards. He makes an elaborate show of brushing the dust off of his clothes, keeping his gaze trained on the ground. Instead of seeing Keller relax, he senses it. Springing forward, he head-butts Keller in the stomach. The breath whooshes out of Keller's body and he clutches at his abdomen. Toby takes advantage of his distraction by grabbing Keller's head with both hands and yanking down as he shoves his knee upwards. The crunch of Keller's nose breaking is extremely satisfying. Chris wobbles, his eyes starting to roll back into his head. Toby takes one step closer and kicks him in the balls as hard as he can.

Honestly, he's surprised that he finds any. Instinctively, Keller's body curls inward for protection, but he tips over, falling heavily to the ground. He lies panting through his mouth as blood gushes from his broken nose. Toby towers over him, casting a long shadow across Chris's face. He stares until Keller swallows thickly and tries to prop himself up on his elbows.

"You're living with someone," Toby accuses. Just because Keller says he's not married doesn't mean anything, and it's something that can easily be disproved. He can't believe Chris thinks he can slide on this. So much for love.

"Check into it, then," Chris says sluggishly. He tries to swallow again, but gags instead. He coughs. "I'm sure you got the resources."

Toby nods. "I do. So the curtains came with the place?"

Chris rolls his head to the other side. "She's just a friend."

"A friend you fuck," Toby says bluntly.

"I've never loved anyone the way that I love you, Toby," Chris says with such conviction that Toby is struck dumb.

"You don't even know me," Toby says, but that's not what he means. "And I sure as hell never knew you."

"No," Chris responds. "That's not true." He slurs some of the words. Toby watches Keller's jaw tighten as he fights back dry heaves. "You've always known me. I never lied about who I was, and I never faked anything with you." He makes a fist with his left hand and then relaxes it.

"I don't believe you, you fucking lying piece of shit!" Toby shouts. He wants to kick Chris again. "You pretended to be my husband! How much more of a lie is there?"

"So what?" Chris retorts. "I never lied to you about who I am. That was me, all of it. I love you," he repeats. The broken nose makes the words sound wet as they leave his throat.

"Fuck you, you fucking asshole," Toby barks. The vein in his forehead and the pulse points at his temples throb with misery. It's too soon. He shouldn't have come here, and he doesn't know what answers he thought he'd find. He tried to come without any expectations, but he knows that's a load of bullshit. He thought that he would probably forgive Chris eventually, with time. Now, he's not so sure.

He studies Chris, the hopefulness in his eyes, even under the bruises forming on his face and the fresh blood on his mouth. It's unfair that Chris is so fucking attractive to Toby, even like this. It's even more unfair because Toby really wants something concrete and tangible, something that he can be absolutely sure is one hundred percent real. He wants someone real. He's tired of not having anyone, and goddamn Keller for making him think that he did.

"I'm still coming back next week," Chris says, and to Toby's ears it sounds like a promise. "Or do you want me to leave you alone?" Chris's eyes sweep over Toby.

Toby's silent while Chris waits for an answer, waiting for Toby to decide, and Toby wants to be spiteful and cruel. He wants to say no, turn and walk away. He bites the inside of his cheek so hard that he tastes blood. For the briefest of moments, Toby wishes that there was something that Chris could do to make this right, but when he looks back at Keller, he's not sure that such a thing exists.

"Am I poison?" A searching look, and Chris lowers his voice. "Your poison?"

Keller sits up slowly. He makes a grab for Toby's hand, and Toby stands woodenly as Keller inches closer.

"Just a kiss," he says softly, coaxingly, as though he isn't covered in smudges of blood, as if he hadn't lied through his teeth to Toby's face and then jack-rabbited, catapulting in and out of Toby's life.

"You are out of your goddamned mind!" Toby yells, jerking his hand away. "I just spent three months in a fucking loony bin because of you. Do you honestly believe that a kiss is going to solve all of our problems?"

"Sure," Chris gurgles. He spits a mouthful of blood into the dirt. "Yeah, you're right." Carefully, he pushes himself to hands and knees, and then he stands, swaying slightly. He eyes the door of the apartment with a hard look of determination on his face. He takes a small step towards it, struggling to keep his balance.

A wave of tiredness sweeps across Toby. His shoulders droop and he shakes his head wearily.

"Come on," he says, looping an arm around Keller's waist and half-dragging him over to the stoop.

Keller nearly smiles, but he's got it wrong. Toby's not in a forgiving mood.

Finally, he looks Chris in the eye and answers as best he can, even though Keller doesn't deserve an ounce of honesty. "I don't know."

"Okay," Chris says quietly. "I wouldn't trust me either. But I do love you, and I'm going to prove it to you."

Toby's gaze roams over the lawn. He touches two fingertips to his bottom lip, stroking over it slowly. The movement's not lost on Chris, his stare covetous, and Toby knows that at the very least, the lust was real. He remains expressionless, but inside, his laughter has a sharp edge to it. Toby faces Chris once more. "I hope so," he says, and it's hard to miss the flash of triumph on Keller's face.

Toby turns and walks down the low incline of the path. He looks both ways before crossing into the parking lot. Settling into his rental car, he turns the key in the ignition, and then he's pulling away smoothly. He doesn't look back.

  


_A man's worst enemy can't wish him what he thinks up for himself._  
\--Yiddish proverb  



End file.
